


Whether We Wake or Sleep

by Ripplestitchskein



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Romance, Seriously it's a slow burn, Slow Burn, so slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 69,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ripplestitchskein/pseuds/Ripplestitchskein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 3 Canon Divergence set during the end of the CS movie (There’s No Place Like Home), an alternate version of what happened after they returned to Rumpelstiltskin's castle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my love and thanks to Capitaine-Odette who made this story so much better with her wonderful suggestions and who was so completely lovely and encouraging through the process of writing it.

“I mean to put you somewhere safe, someplace even I dare not go. Where I store the magic that is too dark, or unpredictable, even for me,” the creature before her gave a flourish of his hand, fingertips waving up towards the ceiling, and Emma instinctively reared back, the beginnings of his name on the tip of her tongue.

 

But nothing happened.

 

The scaled man before her shimmered a pale translucent blue for a moment and froze, his mouth a twisted jack-o-lantern grin of black and yellow teeth, yellow lizard eyes crinkled at the corners.

 

Hook stumbled forward a bit, his sword faltering as the weight on his shoulder disappeared and he reached automatically backwards with his wooden hand, afraid for a moment he had dropped their poor unconscious captive.

 

“Oh blah, blah, blah,” a familiar accented voice came from behind them. “I thought he’d never shut up.”

 

Emma’s heart shot into her throat and she whirled around, her hands automatically coming up in defense, wand pointed outwards. Hook was whirling too, the point of his sword swinging from the unmoving Rumplestiltskin to the new redheaded threat before them.

 

Zelena laughed, delighted at their expressions, her fingers idly toying with the small green charm around her neck and one hip leaning against the large table.

 

“Oh relax Captain, put your pointy metal stick away,” she waved her hand lazily with a roll of her eyes and his sword flew across the room, banging against the wall and falling to the floor with a clatter. “I’m not going to hurt you, I _did_ just save your lives.”

 

Emma leaned back, her eyes narrowing. She exchanged a look with Killian who, for his part, looked equally confused, and angry, very angry, his jaw clenched and his shoulders tense. He shifted his arm uncomfortably, no doubt very much wishing he had the hook available instead of the gloved wooden appendage.

 

“Come now Savior,” Zelena sneered. “I know you aren’t going to hurt me, not you hero types. After all - “ Zelena twisted the green pendant in her hand and her face seemed to melt and shift  almost instantly into the woman from the cell block, red hair exchanged for dark brown. “-I just want to get back to my _family_.” She said in the woman’s voice, batting large brown eyes at the pair before her.

 

“It was you the whole time?” Emma blinked, a thousand questions flooding into her brain, wanting to pull back every ounce of kindness she had shown her.

 

“Well,” Zelena twisted the pendant again, brown replaced with red and blue once again.

 

“Not the _whole_ time. I just took advantage of the opportunity you presented me with after you knocked your little companion out.” Zelena smiled. “But I have been enjoying the show. The waltz is so romantic don’t you think?”

 

Her eyes flashed. “Prince Charles? _Princess_ Leia. Such a sweet story, the pirate playing hero for a day. The savior living the life of royalty she never knew.” Zelena gave a sympathetic pout.

 

“What. Do. You. Want. Where’s the woman from the cell?” Emma bit out, jabbing the wand forward with emphasis.

 

Zelena just gave a little indifferent shrug and smiled a secret telling smile.

 

Emma felt her head flush with rage. She wanted to kill her. She wanted to rip her hair out. Visions of Neal dying in the dirt, her baby brother just hours old squalling from the floor of some filthy barn, and the poor innocent woman who just wanted to help Snow White flashed in turns through her head, all victims of this monster standing before them. She was trembling with anger and her heart thudded against her ribs, blood pounding in her ears. Her grip tightened around the wand.

 

“It’s very simple Savior, I just want to go home to my dear, dear sister and give her everything she’s ever deserved,” Zelena’s eyes twinkled as she grinned at them. “And to do that I need you.”

 

“Me?” Emma exchanged another confused look with Hook shaking away the anger, she needed to focus, she needed to get it under control.

 

“What do you want with me?”

 

Killian shifted on his feet, swaying almost unconsciously and protectively in front of her.

 

Zelena reached over, and tapped the tip of the black wand still clutched in Emma’s hand.

“It’s nothing really, I just need you to use this,” Zelena pushed the tip of the wand up with her finger.

 

“Why would we do anything to help you?”

 

Hook was practically growling, ending the last word in a rasp, his body tense and buzzing with energy next to her.

 

She could all but feel his own anger sparking against her arm, probably having his own no doubt similar reminders of Zelena’s numerous crimes and threats, Henry scared in the boat house, Neal laying in a hospital bed, the helplessness on Emma’s face as she admitted her magic was gone because of him.

 

“Simple, pirate,” Zelena flashed a grin, all white teeth and crazed blue eyes. “Because if you don’t,” she leaned in further, her teeth clenching around her words. “I’ll do what I should have had my little pet do in New York in the first place.” She jerked her eyes meaningfully to Emma and he followed them with his own, a small bit of anxiety rising in his stomach.

 

Zelena gave another wave of her hand and before he could look away he saw dark green tendrils of magic cracking and bursting from the floor, wrapping around his wrists and ankles, squeezing tight, and holding him firmly in place.

 

“No,” Emma moved involuntarily towards the straining man.

 

“Oh don’t worry, I won’t hurt your little boy toy,” Zelena rolled her eyes, letting them rove momentarily over Killian who was pulling and tugging at his bonds. “I just need you to give a little wave of that wand dear, and send us all back to Regina’s quaint little seaside creation.”

 

“I can’t,” Emma said, teeth clenched. “You took my magic, _remember_?”

 

Zelena faltered, her grin slipping from her face to be replaced with confusion, looking from Killian to Emma and back again. It was almost gratifying seeing her caught off guard, almost worth it to see the weight of her mistake on her face.

 

“But you-” if it was possible Zelena frowned even harder. “I thought-” she trailed off.

 

Killian looked uneasily at Emma who returned it, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, wand still at the ready, useless as it was, but it was the only weapon at her disposal.

 

Emma shook her head and after a moment of searching Emma’s face for any hint of a lie, Zelena let out a throaty little shriek of rage and whirled around, her burgundy cloak billowing out behind her.

 

“Unbelieveable,” Zelena threw her hands up as she stalked across the room. “You mean to tell me you don’t feel _anything._ Not even a glimmer or a spark? Nothing?” She was almost yelling now, her finger pointing accusingly at Emma as she crossed swiftly back.

 

Emma quickly backed up a step, brandishing the wand like a sword in front of her. Hook jerked against his bonds.

 

“Why don’t you do it then?” Emma snapped back. “You seem to be just fine. A lot less _dead_ than we thought, that’s for sure.”

 

“Because I wasn’t first through the portal, _you were,”_ Zelena was shaking her head. “You set the destination, you are the link back to the present.” Zelena looked at them for a moment and then let out another little shriek of indignation. “No, no, no, no, NO. This is all _wrong_.”

 

She turned, bizarrely enough to Hook, her finger just inches from his nose. “You useless-” Zelena cut herself off again, taking in a deep breath, hands fluttering down by her side.  “Let’s have a think, shall we?” Zelena turned, pacing back the way she came, her hands clenching and unclenching.

 

Emma felt the tension rising in her shoulders.

 

Zelena was unpredictable on the best of days but now, freshly risen from the dead, she seemed a bit more unhinged than usual, desperate and caught off guard as she was.

 

Hook tugged at his arm next to her and she turned, taking advantage of Zelena’s momentary distraction to try and grab a hold of the odd green vines that were holding him down.

 

“Well it’s a curse so you’ll just have to break it then, won’t you,” Zelena said after a moment turning around, a fake smile now fixed firmly on her face, the threat in her voice much more than a hint.

 

“I’m not doing anything for you,” Emma glared. “You killed Neal. You think I’m going to let you get back to Storybrooke where you can kill my family too?”

 

“I couldn’t care less about the Charmings and their precious little bundle of joy or your precocious little pre-teen,” Zelena scoffed. “And _technically_ he killed himself. All I did was withhold certain relevant details, I just assumed he knew the price of a life. All magic comes with a price isn't that right Rumple dear?”

 

Zelena circled around the frozen figure of the Dark One, tracing a path down his reptilian cheek with the back of her hand. She leaned in close and Emma’s stomach turned.

 

“I’m not going to let you hurt anyone else,” Emma said. “If we can’t get back, neither can you,” she raised her chin, and out of the corner of her eye Hook did as well, staring the witch down. “You already said the only one who can open that portal is me, so you’re stuck here, same as us.”

 

For a brief moment rage flashed across Zelena’s face, but her eyes flickered from Emma to Hook and back again, just like before, and a small stealthy smile crept slowly across her face, the rage replaced with bemusement.

 

Emma looked at Hook out of the corner of her eye and saw him visibly swallow, recognizing that smile as the “very not good” thing it was. He gave another firm tug on the vine, a small cracking sound from the floor the only concession to his efforts, but it didn’t budge.

 

“Oh Savior,” Zelena said softly. “You _will_ get your magic back, and you _will_ take me back to Storybrooke. It’s just a matter of giving you the right…” Zelena’s smile widened. “Motivation.”

 

Before Emma could speak Zelena had waved her hand and a cloud of green smoke enveloped them. Emma got  that feeling behind her belly button, that sharp tug and pull of being teleported that was becoming all too familiar at this point.  It had her reeling as she fell unceremoniously onto hard, unyielding marble.

 

There was a loud thump and a grunt as Killian landed beside her, his hand automatically reaching out to take her arm.

 

“Swan, are you alright?” he breathed out and Emma swept her hair out of her eyes.

 

“Yeah I’m fine,” she sat up, taking in their surroundings, fingers flexing against the stone. Her knees ached. “Where are we?”

 

The stone walls were an odd golden colored stone, the room empty save for a thick coil of rope on the floor, a pair of iron manacles at the end resting near them on the marble floor. Killian rose first, reaching down to help her up, his hand warm in her own. He winced and turned towards the door.

 

“I'm assuming that’s probably not an exit,” he murmured and reached out, pushing hard against it. As expected the door didn't budge, but he tried harder, rearing back to ram his shoulder into it once, twice, Emma grabbing his arm and pulling him back on the third attempt.

 

“Don’t bother it’s pointless,” she sighed toeing a manacle with her foot.

 

Hook frowned.

 

“I'm not usually one to offer optimism Swan but I’ve escaped from worse prisons than this.” He turned back to the door, reaching up to run his fingers along the seams.

 

“Whatever Zelena is doing she's not going to just leave us here. She needs us to get back.”

 

“Well I'm not exactly eager to see what she has planned to make that happen,” he said a little harsher than usual, a bit more desperate, turning instead to the wall to test each of the stones in turn. “I wager it's not going to be pleasant for either of us.”

 

Emma shrugged, but for lack of anything better to do followed his lead, pressing against the stones with her palms, trying to fit into the grooves between them with her fingernails.

 

“Why doesn’t she just kill Regina here in the past?” Emma asked after a few moments of silent exploration in the small space. “Stop all of this from happening?”

 

That current train of thought stretched out before her, all the possibilities of that outcome hitting her at once. Without Regina there was no curse, without the curse there was no wardrobe and no foster homes and no hunger, no homelessness and… no Henry. Her heart constricted her in her chest at the thought, panic rising in her throat.

 

Seeming to sense the somewhat morbid direction of her mental wanderings, Killian crossed the cell coming to stand just before her. She looked down, studying the pattern on the floor but he was undeterred by her usual brand of deflection, the events of the past few days making him bolder, nudging her chin up with the side of his prosthetic.

 

“Hey,” he said softly and she complied, looking up and marveling for a moment at the understanding in his eyes and softness of his expression. “If that was her plan she wouldn't have bothered with us in the first place.”

 

His expression turned a bit more grim.

 

“If there is one thing I am familiar with love, it's vengeance, and Zelena isn't going to get any satisfaction out of merely killing the queen when she’s at her lowest point.”

 

He shook his head.

 

“She wants Regina to _suffer_ like she believes she has suffered. And the best way to do that isn't some anonymous assassination when the queen doesn't expect it. She has to hit her when her guard is down, when Regina thinks everything is finally falling into place.” He gave a sad little smile. “That's the strategy I would employ at any rate.”

 

Emma could see the flicker of shame in his eyes at the admission and her arm came up automatically to reach for him, to comfort him, but he had already turned, avoiding her gaze as he went back to his ministrations at the wall.

 

“Well if she's not planning to kill us or Regina what do you think she's doing?”

 

Killian let out a grunt, pausing in his tactile perusal of the stones.

 

“I haven’t a clue but I can say with certainty it isn't good.”

 

________

 

The room, unfortunately, turned out to be completely solid and there wasn’t a crack or worn piece of stone in the whole place. The door too was stuck fast, no way to wedge anything under or around it, and the barred windows above, the only source of light, were too high to reach even if they stood one atop the other. Nor could they climb, the stone wall completely smooth with no hand or footholds of any kind.

 

Killian had tried briefly to use the manacles as a grappling hook but the space was too small, the bars on the windows much too high, and Emma ordered him to cease after barely dodging the heavy iron cuffs, and the subsequent concussion, for the fifth time.

 

She had to give the man credit, he wasn't a quitter. Had never been a quitter. She thought of him turning up in New York, a man out of time in a strange and busy city, after facing who knows what kind of obstacles to accomplish the seemingly impossible.

 

After searching every nook and cranny of the small cell for any point of weakness for hours he had turned his hunt inward searching through the pockets of his quilted coat, and in the satchel still wrapped around his chest.

 

There was nothing of use for escape however, just a few bits and bobbles - a worn parchment map, a well loved compass, bit of string, a smooth piece of blue glass. He did have his flask which she happily accepted after he collapsed down next to her, the rum filling her with a soothing warmth as the room slowly dimmed with the setting sun.

 

They leaned against the wall, legs stretched out before them, shoulders and thighs touching in the small space, and for a while Emma could feel every movement and twitch acutely, that entire side of her body hyper aware of his own. Goose flesh appeared across her skin and she felt that familiar stirring behind her bellybutton, more evidence of the same simmering attraction she had been feeling since they’d met, one that had only grown deeper and fuller as they worked side by side. But this was definitely not the time nor the place to dwell on it.

 

So instead she gave into the other feeling she associated with the man beside her, the one of comfort and dare she admit it, safety. She sank down further, relaxing into his side, leaning against him fully. He tensed up at first, a blink and you missed it sharp intake of breath before he too let himself relax a bit.

 

It was actually quite pleasant.

 

Despite the stress of the unknown, the direness of their circumstances, and the ever present fear that they would fail that was always clawing at back of her mind, Emma found herself feeling strangely calm.The weight of him next to her, his slow and steady breaths, and the now familiar scent of him filling her nose had her drifting off, letting herself give into the sleep she desperately needed after so many days of adventuring in this strange land with so much anxiety filling every single moment.

 

Which was why it was so startling to be jerked out of that peaceful sleep by the sickly sweet coo of one of her worst enemies.

 

“Oh isn't this adorable,” Zelena spoke above them. “And also, funnily enough, incredibly ironic.”

 

Emma jerked to attention, leaving the cocooning warmth of Killian’s arms, which had loosely snaked around her over the course of the evening.

 

He too startled to the ready, groping automatically for his sword and finding empty space instead.

 

“Sorry to spoil such a sweet moment, but we’ve business to attend to my dears,” Zelena gave a clap of her hands.

 

The pair got to their feet and into defensive positions as quickly and as gracefully as the small space would let them, Hook once again angling his body slightly in front of Emma’s own. Emma wishing she hadn't dropped the pointy wand during the initial teleportation. As it stood she only had her fists at her disposal so she readied them instead.

 

Zelena had changed it seemed, probably to set the mood for evil doing, a form fitting dress that was all sequins and spikes taking the place of the other woman's well loved cloak and simple cotton gown.

 

“What part of ‘I don't have my magic anymore’ aren't you getting?” Emma snapped. Killian shifted next to her, guilt flashing momentarily across his face.

 

“Well I've given that quite a bit of thought blondie,” Zelena smiled. “And all we need to correct that teeny tiny problem is a little kiss.”

 

Zelena looked pointedly back and forth between the two of them.

 

“Come now then you two, pucker up.” Zelena mimicked pushing their heads together with her hands.

 

Emma flushed red, opening her mouth to protest and simultaneously ask Zelena why she was so into the idea of forcing them to kiss, but Killian beat her to the punch.

 

“That won't work anyway,” he said, glaring at the witch.

 

Emma felt the flash of hurt acutely, zinging through her like lightning. She tried to keep her face neutral at his blatant rejection, but judging by the delighted look on Zelena’s, she failed.

 

He looked down momentarily, swallowing thickly, shifting on his feet. “We’ve already attempted that, twice, and failed.”

 

“What? Twice?” Emma turned on him confused. She felt certain she would remember something like _that_ happening on more than one occasion.

 

Killian gave a pained smile at her, a bit sheepish and more than a bit sad. He shifted again, nervously shuffling his feet and looking down at the ground.

 

“The first was at your apartment in New York. My ill conceived and presumptuous attempt to return your memories,” he reminded her. “The second was when you saved my life at the well. If it had worked then…” He trailed off giving a flourishing wave of his hand.

 

“I would have my magic,” Emma finished softly. Killian didn't look at her.

 

Something like despair, cold and painful settled into her chest, in the space between her shoulder blades and in the pit of her stomach at this realization. It felt like loss, a familiar feeling for Emma to be sure, but this was so much stronger, the death of possibility, of promise, the loss of a love never known. She wanted to cry, her eyes burning against her will, she wanted to scream, her throat swallowing reflexively to stop her.

 

She had lost something she hadn't even known she’d wanted. Been denied something she hadn't known was a possibility. It wasn’t fair. It wasn't right. For the first time, despite everything that had happened, everything that was _still happening,_ despite all the obstacles in their way before, Emma felt hopeless.

 

“Which _she_ bloody well knows.” Killian was saying through clenched teeth, glaring at Zelena and breaking Emma out of her thoughts. She blinked the idea of tears away, letting anger fill the space inside instead.

 

“Oh I know, Captain I just love hearing you say it,” Zelena’s twisted smile morphed into a mocking pout. “How it must eat you up inside to have the definitive proof that the woman you love doesn't feel the same? It’s absolutely delicious.”

 

Her expression turned to one of fake sympathy.

 

“But come now darlings, surely the third time's the charm?”

 

Killian just glared at her, his expression stoney, a muscle working furiously in his jaw.

 

“Oh fine. You’re no fun,” Zelena huffed. “So who _can_ we get to kiss the little princess?” She pretended to think taping her finger against her chin.

 

“There’s no one here Zelena. Henry is back in Storybrooke. You’re stuck. And even if there _was_ someone here that could…” Emma hesitated on the word, “kiss me, no way I would let that happen. Just so you can force us to take you back to Storybrooke? I won’t do it. I can live without my magic just fine.”

 

“You’re absolutely right Saviour,” Zelena’s smile grew wider and Emma grew uneasy. “You _can_ live without your magic. Which is why I had to think of a different sort of incentive altogether.” Her hand flicked towards Killian’s boots, freezing them, and the rest of his lower half in place.

 

Emma started towards him but Zelena reached out, curling her other hand into a claw. Some invisible force held Emma fast out of Killian’s reach. Emma strained against it. There was no way she was going to let her hurt him.

 

Killian struggled for a brief moment and then laughed.

 

“Trust me witch, I'm willing to die if it means keeping you away from Storybrooke. Do what you will with me.” His eyes were fierce, his jaw set.

 

Emma’s heart pounded in her chest at the thought and she struggled harder, her eyes burning again. She wanted to scream at him for even suggesting such a thing.

 

“Your sacrifice is stupidly noble pirate, but you’re not the one I’ve got my eye on.” Zelena rolled her eyes at the man and then turned her attention to Emma, slinking towards the frozen woman and smiling a secret smile.

 

Killian faltered, narrowing his eyes.

 

“You’re bluffing. You can't hurt her, she's your only way back you just said as much.”

 

Zelena laughed.

 

“But that's where you’re wrong Captain, there is another way.” She idly tapped her wrist.

 

“I’m taking about _time_ of course. In a short while Regina will cast her silly little curse and we’ll all be whisked away to a brand new world.” Zelena was reaching into her bodice, pulling out a tiny ornate dagger from within its confines. “And I have already made assurances that I won't forget a single thing.”

 

Killian’s eyes widened at the blade, small though it was, and he struggled harder, desperately trying to get free.

 

“But then again, I've never been a very patient person,” Zelena continued softly turning her attention back to Emma. “So we’ll call that a backup plan in case you’re a bit more stubborn than I thought. I figured you’d be fine without your magic, after all, you just couldn't wait to leave it all behind. So I decided that you needed something a little more…. _immediate_ to light a fire under you.” Zelena grinned even harder. “Call it two curses broken for the price of one!”

 

She struck like snake, wrenching Emma’s hand up, her long black nails digging into the tender flesh of Emma’s arm. Emma wanted to cry out but she couldn't move, a single tear burned in her eyes and rolled down her cheek.

 

Killian struggled harder, chest heaving, small desperate grunts issuing forth as he resisted with everything he had, his entire lower half stuck fast to the floor.

 

“What's the saying? By the pricking of my thumbs-” Zelena grabbed Emma’s hand harshly, jerking it upwards and in one smooth movement slashed the tiny dagger across her palm. Emma cried out as blood welled up, the force holding her down leaving at the same time. Zelena let her go and stepped back with a triumphant smile. “-something _wicked_ this way comes? Has nothing to do with thumbs you know.”

 

The magic binding Killian disappeared as well, no longer needed since the job was done. Emma clutched her bleeding hand to her chest, looking at Zelena with wide, disbelieving eyes.

 

Killian was across the room in an instant, taking the injured hand in his own.

 

“What did you do?” He demanded, glaring fiercely at the witch.

 

“Just a little curse Captain,” Zelena said cheerfully tilting her head. “Nothing to be concerned about, well…. as long as you find someone to give the savior a very special kiss _very_ soon. Might I suggest her parents? I'm sure they’re wandering around somewhere saving kittens from trees or some such nonsense, mooning over each other.” She sounded disgusted at the thought.

 

“Why aren't I asleep then?” Emma could feel the blood trickling down over her hand, dripping onto the marble floor.

 

“Oh no dearie. It's not a sleeping curse. How dreadfully boring that would be,” Zelena shook her head.“Do give me some credit that I'm more original than copycat Queen Regina.” She sneered the name.

 

“Not to mention a sleeping curse would take _ages_ , I'd be better off waiting for the stupid curse _._ So I whipped up something _special_ just for you. Something a little more _motivating_ than lying around taking a comfy nap.”

 

“Which is?” Killian said impatiently through clenched teeth, still carefully holding her wrist. He looked more afraid than she had ever seen him and _that_ was what sent Emma’s heart into overdrive.

 

“Why a Wakefulness Curse of course!” Zelena clapped her hands delightedly, the hilt of the dagger slapping against her palm. “Isn't it wonderful!”

 

“So what, I'll just stay…. awake?” Emma asked confused. She looked up at Hook who looked surprisingly stricken.

 

“Well, you will until your body absolutely can't handle it anymore,” Zelena said happily. “Ooh I know! Let's start a betting pool on when that might be!”

 

“What happens when my body can't handle it anymore?” Emma asked softly, already knowing the answer before the question left her mouth. Somewhere in the back of her mind a bit of trivia floated forward about the effects of lack of sleep on the human body, and she recoiled at the thought.

 

Killian looked down at her, his face absolutely devastated.

 

“You die.”

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Killian gather some resources by any means necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my amazing beta capitaine-odette. This story wouldn't be half a good without her guidance.

_ “What happens when my body can't handle it anymore?” Emma asked softly, already knowing the answer before the question left her mouth. Somewhere in the back of her mind a bit of trivia floated forward about the effects of lack of sleep on the human body, and she recoiled at the thought. _

 

_ Killian looked down at her, his face absolutely devastated.  _

 

_ “You die.”  _

 

“But not without some really  _ agonizing  _ suffering first!” Zelena said cheerfully, wiping the tiny blade against the black sequined waist of the gown before tucking it safely away in her bodice once more. She leaned in closer to whisper conspiratorially. “That’s my favorite bit, if I’m honest.”

 

Emma didn’t respond, just continued to look down at the tiny drops of blood, her blood, on the gray stone floor. Being in a deadly situation and being basically sentenced to death were two completely different feelings. The first happened often enough, all energy and adrenaline, blood pumping through her veins, heart pounding but the second was something new altogether. A numbing cold that made her limbs heavy and weary, an agonizing clench in the back of her throat that she couldn’t swallow around, that feeling like there just wasn't enough air. 

 

She thought of her parents, of Henry, of all her friends in Storybrooke who might not have discovered she was even gone yet. They probably assumed she was just off somewhere brooding, off somewhere upset they had dared to question her decision to leave them, off somewhere pouting because people actually cared enough to want her to stay. 

 

She wanted to laugh until she cried. 

 

They had no idea that this very moment she was watching her future slip away at the whims of an absolute madwoman. 

 

Killian’s touch was gentle on her wrist, his calloused fingertips brushing against her skin. It snapped her back to reality in an instant, immediately grounding her in the moment. When she looked up at him his face was all wide eyed disbelieving despair.

 

“Now then dears, let’s get you on your way. We’re on a tight schedule after all,” the witch gave a flourish with her hand and again the pair was enveloped in her signature brand of thick green smoke.

 

Killian’s arm steadied Emma automatically as her feet slipped against the leaves and dirt of the new terrain, her balance thrown off by the abrupt departure. She squinted, the sun far too bright after their dimly lit prison. 

 

“I’m afraid this is where I must leave you my pets, I’ve a Dark One’s memories to sort out and other business to attend to,” Zelena mockingly frowned. “I do hope you won’t miss me too much. But you’ll be far too busy I think.”   

 

Emma scoffed. 

 

“I don’t care what you did to me, I’m not playing your game,” Emma looked at her defiantely. “I’ll die first.” 

 

Almost against his will Killian let out a soft little noise at her side like the wind had been knocked out of him, but Emma kept her gaze trained on the woman in front of them, unsure if she could maintain her resolve if she saw his expression.

 

“That you will, dear. Most definitely.” Zelena smiled and glanced at Hook knowingly. “But I think you’ll come around, just give it some time, after all we have rather a lot of it!“  Zelena laughed to herself and then took in their expressions, frowning in sympathy, “Oh but you don’t, now do you? Better hurry along then, I hear it is an absolutely  _ awful _ way to go. Ta-Ta!” 

  
  


Zelena let out a delighted little noise, there was a loud whoosh, a puff of smoke and they were left alone in the forest clearing. 

  
  


“Don’t say it,” Emma said immediately, still refusing to look at the man next to her. “I’m not doing it. I can’t let her get back.” 

 

Hook said nothing, his face back to neutral, just gently lifted her injured hand with his wooden one and reached into his satchel, pulling out his flask. He jerked the stopper out with his teeth and slowly poured the liquid over the cut, which was shallower than she thought seeing it now in the daylight. Prepared this time, she didn’t jerk back or away, the burn of the alcohol a vivid contrast to the numb feeling of shock that had overtaken the rest of her body. 

 

“Well this is familiar,” Emma joked, but he didn’t take the bait, just held the flask against his chest and restoppered it, putting it away and reaching into his coat to withdraw a black handkerchief, each move done with calculated efficiency. 

 

Carefully, his touch soft, he held the cloth in place with his prosthetic while he tied the makeshift bandage around her palm, smoothing the fabric gently with his fingers. His silence was making her anxious as he worked but Emma wasn’t sure quite what to say to break it, her mind blank both from the emotions overwhelming her and by his closeness, the tops of his thighs almost brushing her own.

 

That done, Killian turned abruptly and stepped away, shielding his eyes against the glare as he looked up into the sky, considering it for a moment before he turned and began a slow trudge deeper into the forest.    

 

Emma felt panic rise in her throat. Was he just leaving her? Now that he knew for sure, now that he had it confirmed, twice apparently, that she wasn’t the key to his happiness, that she wasn’t his “one true love”, was he just leaving her behind? She stood there for a moment struck dumb by disbelief at the thought as he moved further and further away.

 

Realizing she wasn’t following, Hook turned and looked over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised. 

 

“King Midas’s castle is this way, love,” he said casually jerking his head in that direction. “I suggest we start there with the  search for your father.” 

 

“I just told you I’m not doing it,”  Emma glared at him across the clearing. Killian glared right back. 

 

“So that’s just it then, you’re giving up? And I’m supposed to just sit back and let you?” he snapped. 

 

“I’m not going to let that witch hurt my family,” Emma said through clenched teeth. 

 

She stared at him, daring him to challenge her. She wasn’t going to just give in to Zelena’s demands, risk the safety of those she loved to save her own hide. The thought of never seeing them again, her parents and Henry, of never telling them she loved them, never telling them she missed them, was almost unbearable. Her anguish was so great that it threatened to send her to the ground under the weight of it, but the threat of Zelena was much worse. She was doing what was best for them, and if Killian could get back one day he would let them know.

 

Killian stalked back to her. 

 

“It doesn’t matter to Zelena if you don’t do what she wills. You heard her, Swan, she already has an alternate option at the ready, except  _ this time _ when she gets to Storybrooke she’ll have the added advantage that no one you care about actually remembers who they are or that The bloody Wicked Witch even exists,” Killian jerked to a stop in front of her, his eyes burning fiercely into hers. 

 

She knew logically that his rancor and frustration wasn’t necessarily directed at her, that he was feeling just as helpless and lost as she, but it still hurt to have him speak to her with so much derision. It was a tone generally reserved to mock Regina, or heroic plans he deemed ridiculous, and now it was directed at her.  

 

Seeing the look in her eyes, his expression softened immediately.

 

“But it  _ does  _ matter to your family if you don’t return, and we have a better chance of stopping Zelena if you  _ remain alive _ .” He was looking at her so severely, with so much desperation, Emma could feel the heat from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, an all consuming intensity that had her flushing red in the face of it. 

 

“Do you really believe we can beat her?” Emma asked. 

 

Seeing her resolve starting to crumble, he softened even more in response, the corner of his mouth ticking up to give her a reassuring half smile. 

 

“Aye love, I do. I’ve never believed in anything as much as I believe in you, and I spent a few centuries in a land entirely run on belief, and... the whims of a mad man-child,” Killian trailed off for a moment before regaining himself, “Which is exactly why we need to proceed with all due haste to your father’s castle so we can  _ keep  _ you in a condition to actually fight the hell witch. I’ve seen the effects of this type of sorcery before and I won’t see that happen to you.”  

  
  


Emma sucked in a breath, her mouth dropping open a bit, stunned every time by these flowery speeches dropped in the middle of normal conversation, but also by the sheer intensity of his faith in her. She took a step towards him, her hand opening and closing uselessly in front of her, unsure of how exactly to respond to something so honest and so real, marveling at his ability to singlehandedly address all her fears with one powerful statement. 

 

Killian flushed at her response, the tips of his ears turning red. He looked away, uncomfortable, a sheepish smile appearing and disappearing in an instant as he decided what to say. 

 

“And additionally, I can’t imagine that the existence of two Captain Hooks would agree with the timeline,” he deflected with feigned jollyness. “Who knows what kind of havoc the pair of us would wreak.”

 

“You’re probably right,” Emma said softly, a small smile playing across her lips as she swayed closer to him, her heart swelling with too many emotions, some bad, some good, quite a few concerned with the man in front of her. 

 

“So really, it’s kind of my…. duty to make sure that you get back?” She offered, looking briefly down at her hands, his carefully applied bandage only adding to the feeling of warmth in her belly.

 

“It would be awfully negligent of you to just leave me to my own devices Swan,” he breathed out, reacting immediately to her shift in mood. Perfectly in sync no matter what the circumstances. 

 

The urge to move into his space was strong, her head a jumbled mess from enforced closeness and tension of the past few days, her already overwhelming feelings, not to mention her fear, so she let herself sway even further into him.

  
  


“I mean, if it’s the  _ heroic  _ thing to do,” Emma shrugged, and looked up at him through her lashes, so close she could almost feel the heat of him despite the coolness of the day. 

 

His eyes flickered from them and then down to her lips briefly, but he didn’t let himself move any closer. He just sucked in a deep steadying breath, his eyes darting back and forth with indecision for a brief moment, and then resolved. He flashed an awkward smile, scratched behind his ear, and stepped back. 

 

“Then let’s set sail shall we love?” he waved his arm in the direction he had been heading earlier. “We should reach the nearest village well before nightfall.” 

 

A flash of disappointment bolted through her, but she forced a smile and gave him a small but firm nod of determination, taking a deep breath in.

 

“Let’s go break a few curses.” 

 

________

  
  


If there was one thing that Emma was probably never going to do in her limited free time ever again, it was hike. 

 

Not that there had been an overabundance of that particular activity before, but hours and hours of slow trudging through dense underbrush, stepping over fallen logs and barely keeping herself from tripping on rocks, firmly fixed that resolution into her head. Killian was right that the pair seemed to spend a disproportionate amount of time traversing the wilderness, and this little adventure had increased that time tenfold. 

 

Still, it wasn’t completely unpleasant. Killian helped her over the taller logs, his palm warm against her fingertips, and held branches out of her way with a smile and a little bowing nod, always the gentleman. He moved as confidently through the forest as he did anywhere else, pausing occasionally to check the sun’s position and make calculations in his head, plotting out their destination on the map in his satchel. 

 

“I’m sorry about your hook,” Emma offered after he held what had to be the thousandth branch out of her path, realizing suddenly that it might be a bit more difficult for him without it. “Maybe we can find you another one?” 

 

“Don’t be love, it’s probably better for me for the purposes of blending in. The hook….well it makes a statement. A noticeable one,” he sent her a quick smile and looked out into the forest ahead. 

 

“Lack of protection  _ is  _ our most pressing concern, however. A man who turns anything he’d like into gold tends to attract certain…unsavory elements on the road to his estate, myself counted among them of course.” He motioned to his empty sword hilt to emphasize how few weapons they had should they run into said unsavory elements.

 

“And of course we’ll need both food and the funds to acquire it. Which is why-”  He grunted, hauling himself over a humongous dead log and reached back to help her do the same. “- we need to get to a populated area where I can procure us some resources for the trek ahead.”

“Steal you mean,” Emma said without judgement, smiling at him slyly. “I can help you know. In the….” she gave a motion of her hand, “procurement efforts.” 

 

“Oh I was counting on it, love,” he winked at her. “I’m sure, together, we will have no trouble outfitting ourselves for the journey. King Midas’s castle is relatively close but whether the Prince is there or not is another matter. I'd prefer to be prepared, but time  _ is _ of the essence so we’ll need to be quick.”

 

Emma froze, a sudden thought coming to her. 

 

“What if he doesn’t recognize us?” Emma asked. “What if Rump-” Emma stopped, unsure if saying the creature’s name might summon him, “Gold’s glamour spell wore off? David doesn’t know us, and he’s not even supposed to see  _ me _ at all.”  

 

Killian paused to consider her statement before continuing to walk. Emma fell in beside him. 

 

“We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it lass, let’s take it one crisis at a time. Perhaps we can find a mirror or a looking glass of some sort to see if it has,” he motioned down to his clothes. “Considering our effects haven’t been returned to us I have to assume we’re still under the power of whatever spell the Crocodile put on us.”  

 

“Which means I’ll need to be careful,” Emma reminded him. “Regina might be looking for me.” 

 

Killian laughed.

 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Emma looked over at him confused. “I’m just a bit disappointed I wasn’t there to see the look on Her Majesty’s face when she realized that not one but  _ three  _ of her prisoners managed to escape in a single evening,” he looked delighted at the thought. 

 

“Well I’ve seen how well Regina handles losing back in our land,” Emma scoffed and then realized something with a shudder. “And that was  _ post-Henry.  _ I can’t even imagine what she’d do now.”

 

“Kill us on sight I suspect. Well, you at any rate,” Killian said cheerfully and sucked in a breath puffing out his chest proudly.  “I think she quite fancied me. Or she will in a couple years time anyway.”

 

Emma raised an eyebrow at him. 

 

“Oh really? Captain Hook and the Evil Queen?” Emma gave him a smirk. “What? Are you trying to make me jealous? Of Regina.” She deadpanned.

 

Killian smiled slyly and leaned sideways into her space, his eyebrow practically waggling.

 

“Well that depends love, is it working?” 

 

He was so close again, his head tipped towards her, tongue pressed to the corner of his teasing grin. Her eyes followed the motion, mouth opening to respond, lips tilting upwards.

 

“I-” Emma started but he seemed to remember himself as soon as she did, quickly drawing back from her and clearing his throat. It had been so easy, so natural to fall right back into their flirty little game, to forget the reason they were having this conversation and the reason it was even necessary.

 

Emma felt that flash of disappointment again, and hurt, and cleared her throat awkwardly as well.

 

“It's doubtful she's focused on you anyway,” Killian said, staring fixedly at the path opening up ahead. “Not with Snow White on the loose again.”

 

Occasionally his eyes would dart nervously to the side to look at her out of the corner, and she could see he was casually increasing the space between them a bit as they walked. Emma, for her part, pretended very hard that she didn't notice and that it didn't leave a hollow feeling in her stomach.

 

Instead she concentrated on the shapes of roofs and the rising smoke from chimneys coming into shape in the distance, the small path growing wider and wider to join a full dirt road, the tracks of wagon wheels and horse hoofs clearly visible in the slightly damp earth. 

  
  


_____

 

The village, Phyrgia the sign on the road had declared, was more of a small city or at the very least a proper town, than the quaint thatched cottage hamlet she had been picturing in her head. 

 

It was bustling with activity, loud and overwhelming, and the smell of unwashed bodies, sewage, and thick billowing smoke almost had her changing her mind about venturing into it at all. The stench was unreal, so many noxious smells mixing together all at once, that she held her sleeve up to her nose, eyes watering. 

 

Her time in the Enchanted Forest so far had arguably been on the pleasant side, fancy balls and well maintained pirate ships, and prisons where the average stay was too brief to create much of a mess. Even the village they had stopped in to acquire her first disguise had been more period reenactment than the grim reality of a life without the modern amenities she was used to. 

 

It was a stark reminder of their circumstances and her heart ached for home.

 

She looked at Killian frantic. 

 

“We can’t rob these people,” she whispered in a hiss, a small girl, almost black from dirt and coal scurried past. “ _ Look _ at them. They have nothing.”

 

Killian gave her a reassuring smile.

 

“Not to worry love, I think you’ll find the prospect a bit more palatable further up the way,” he motioned towards the road which gradually turned from thick, sucking mud, to rough gravel, to uneven cobblestones as it wound around the hill, the rest of the village disappearing around the bend. 

 

It's like an ice cream cone, Emma thought absently as she looked up to to the peak. 

 

It seemed the higher one went up the small mountain, the better one’s station. The dwellings on the lower tier were little more than lean tos made from sticks and hay. As they trudged through the crowd and further up the incline, the houses and businesses became more stable, more sturdy. Some were made of actual wooden beams and boards, and further up still, stone and shingles.

 

It was the area beyond that, at almost the top of the peak, hidden from view from the town below, that had Emma gasping.

 

The Golden Castle had been breathtaking on its own, a huge fairytale cliche glittering 

gold and all dressed up for a beautiful ball. But what the Golden Castle lacked to make it truly spectacular was contrast. 

 

High above the browns and grays of the town below, the manor house at the top of the hill shone brilliant gold in the sun with gleaming silver chimneys and elaborately stained glass windows. It was impressive, intimidating, and more than a bit ridiculous. 

 

Killian smiled at her reaction, her mouth open in astonishment at such a display when so much squalor was so close by. 

 

“See? A much more worthy victim,” he hooked his thumb into his belt and leaned back proudly. 

 

“Don't you think Robin Hood will be a little mad that you’re copying his whole deal? The robbing the rich and all that?” Emma asked wryly. He just grinned.

 

“He seems like a reasonable fellow, his taste in romantic partners aside. And the more the  _ merrier _ , eh Swan?” 

 

Emma just rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the man, and looked up at the imposing building, noting that there were more a few sentries and guards on the grounds, some offering information, others keeping a general but relaxed eye on all the proceedings.

 

“So what do we do? Try to pry one of the bricks loose or something?” 

 

“No Swan, nothing to do with the masonry,” he leaned back evaluating their prey with a calculating eye. “His majesty awards all his Tenant-in-Chiefs with these, frankly, alarming dwellings, so if we did take a stone they would know immediately where we got it and refuse to trade,” he pulled Emma along the path away from direct sight of the house as he spoke, tugging her behind a large tree next to the wall that circled the estate. 

 

“So what's the plan here,” Emma was almost breathless with excitement, the building anticipation making her antsy. “Honey Trap? I’m not really dressed for it, but that usually doesn't matter. Newly Weds? Fake pregnancy?” She looked around for something to use as a “belly”, wondering if leaves stuffed in his satchel would be too crinkly. 

 

“Maybe I could fake an injury. Like a sprained ankle! The main gate’s open to let all those delivery carts through so it won't be hard to get inside. Getting  _ out  _ again might be an issue. This one time, I found this wheelchair in a mall parking lot and-” Emma trailed off looking up at the strangely silent Killian. 

 

He was looking down at her with equal parts disbelief and awe as she’d rambled on. 

 

Emma blushed under his gaze, a soft swell of pride making her smile almost against her will. It was easy to forget that while he knew quite a bit, more than most actually, the full extent of her skill set wasn't something he’d had reason to witness before. 

 

“Well,” Killian cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly. “While I appreciate the surfeit of options you’ve given us, love, I think our best bet is to play to our strengths and our rather fortuitous costuming,” he motioned to her simple shift dress and then to his own much more elaborate ensemble, cocking his head to the side.

 

Emma eyed him warily and looked at first his outfit and then down at hers, confused.

 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

 

______

  
  


Her wrists burned where the coarse fibers of the thick twine from his satchel rubbed the delicate flesh raw and red. They had perhaps looped it a bit too tightly in the interest of believability she admitted, letting Killian push her forward towards the open main entrance of the large manor home. 

 

The courtyard, with its huge golden fountain and perfectly manicured lawn, was bustling with activity, much like the town below, but instead of the daily grind and scrape to survive, this activity was towards the goal of creating some ludicrously elaborate demonstration of ostentation. All the preparations for what looked to be a rather large and excessive party were well under way, the courtyard and side yard filled with people. People with food, people with flowers, people with bolts of beautiful cloth. Everywhere one looked there was something going on.

 

It made Emma sick to think of all this finery at the peak of the mountain while so many scrabbled in the dirt in the city below.  Still, it was fortunate for the two of them that they had arrived on this particular day and at this particular time. The guards that were about were well occupied and there were plenty of distractions to be had. 

 

Killian had taken just a few moments to formulate a really rather solid plan in light of everything going on, and a viable means of escape. Most of it hinged on her. Emma preferred it that way, she was used to handling things on her own.

 

It was interesting to see him in action though, his brain mulling over the possibilities, murmuring to himself as he considered outcomes before firmly deciding on the best course. It was a side Emma rarely got to see but one she certainly enjoyed.

 

There was so little call for  _ actual  _ piracy in Storybrooke, and as she was the Sheriff of the small town it would have been irresponsible to encourage such behavior just for her amusement. In truth she hadn't seen anything like it since Neverland.

 

“Just follow my lead Swan,” Killian leaned forward over her shoulder, his breath a hot whisper in her ear breaking her out of her thoughts and sending a shiver down her spine. Definitely not the time.

 

He was practically pushing her across the planks of the bridge, and when she looked at him she didn’t see the face of the man who had become so familiar to her. He was someone else entirely, someone cold and haughty, his face set in stone, nose in the air. He pushed her forward again and Emma stumbled a bit on the uneven wood. 

 

She turned to glare at him and caught the merest flash of apology before his gaze turned cold again and his attention moved to the lone guard at the doorway, whose sole purpose seemed to be directing traffic and keeping people out of the main house. 

 

He was a little guy, a thin bumbling man with tufts of ginger curls peeking out from beneath his helm. He stood straighter at their approach trying to make himself appear taller and rested a hand on the hilt of a sword that was almost as long as he was tall.

 

“State your business,” the guard stammered out.

 

“I am Prince Charles Apollonius of Corona, honored guest of King Midas himself and I have taken it upon myself to see that this impertinent wench is brought to justice!”

 

Killian proclaimed this rather ridiculous statement in a pompous bellow so unlike his normal voice Emma had to try very hard to keep her face twisted into the scowl of defiance she had decided on. It was so over the top she could feel the laughter bubbling up, her mouth twitching. 

 

Perhaps sensing her amusement even from behind her, Killian gave her a little shake and pushed her further forward into the entrance way. 

 

It seemed to have the desired effect on the keeper of the door however, he shrank into himself and edged backwards into the building.

 

He swallowed nervous and confused, taking in Killian's extremely fine clothes, certainly fit for royalty, and Emma’s rather poor ones, opening and closing his mouth a few times to find the words he needed.

 

He wasn't going to be commended for intelligence or bravery that was for certain, Emma noted wryly while pretending to strain against her bonds and giving him a fierce look, teeth bared. She lunged at him a bit, Killian pulling back on the twine, and the guard almost fell over himself backing further into the house. 

 

Which was exactly what they wanted. 

 

“His Lordship is ah-” the guard looked around as if someone would come to his aid. All he had planned for today was the ordering about of various vendors and servants, he wasn't prepared to accommodate actual royalty and a feral female criminal. “-indisposed but I could fetch his steward? He runs the estate?”

 

If one didn't know Killian well they wouldn't have recognized the triumph in his expression at the guard’s suggestion.

 

His affronted indignation at being foisted off on a lesser member of the household covered up how pleased he was extremely well. Emma could see immediately this was exactly the outcome he'd hoped for.

 

The guard stammered and blustered his way through some semblance of an apology, and backed away further into the hall, turning on his heels and practically running to fetch the man in question.

 

“Get ready love,” Killian whispered into her hair. Emma gave a small almost imperceptible nod and continued to keep up the pretense of struggle using the time to scope out their surroundings. She kept her head ducked down, blonde tresses obscuring her face as she surveyed the rooms. 

 

It was exactly as lavish as one would expect a manor made of gold to be. Intricate tapestries that had probably taken decades to weave by hand hung on every wall she could see. Everything was gilt in gold and sterling silver: from the candle sconces on the walls to the golden braided tassels on the rugs. 

 

Emma followed the path up the stairs, leaning back slightly to get a good idea of the layout above. She had to move quickly and would have no time to get her bearings once they began, she could only hope the rooms upstairs were just as extravagant as those below and would afford her some easy grabs on her way out. 

 

She drew back, seeing the awkward ginger guard emerge from a room down the hall, his hands waving frantically as he explained the situation to his companion, no doubt the steward. 

 

She noted the steward was no prize either as he came fully into view, a thick pudding of a man who spilled over his fine official looking clothes, neck disappearing into fat and fabric, thick sausage like fingers nervously twisting where they rested on a considerable paunch. 

 

The guard skipped along next to him, eyes darting between the higher ranking official and someone he believed to be an actual Prince. 

 

Emma was worried the man might faint from over excitement and they hadn't even properly begun yet.

 

She felt Killian tense next to her, at the ready, and she took a deep breath.

 

“Now what exactly is this about?” The steward wheezed, and Emma felt the pressure in her hands slacken as Killian let go the rope. 

 

“I found this wench-” Killian began but the steward nor the guard would ever learn what “Prince Charles” found her doing. 

 

Emma jerked her arms forward, Killian feigning that he was being jerked forward as well, and swung him bodily into the men before them. 

 

Killian spun his arms, feigning a loss of balance extremely convincingly, forcing him to grab onto the nearest solid object to remain upright. The nearest solid object who just happened to be the twitchy guard. 

 

Emma wasted no time sprinting unseen for the stairs.

 

Below her on the landing, Killian was pulling against the guard’s leather gorget, the three of them falling into a heap of tangled limbs and confusion. 

 

Emma counted the doors, skidding to a halt when she reached the third, and prayed that it was empty. She could hear Killian’s apologies from below and what sounded like his shout that she had gone a way she had most certainly  _ not _ gone while he presumably doubled back and left through the main entrance. She didn't have time to stop to make sure though. She swung open the door and darted inside, closing it softly behind her.

 

The room was thankfully empty, a bedroom like they’d suspected during their brief planning session, with elaborate silk fabric draped along a canopied bed, and a set of heavy ornate chest-of-drawers along the wall. 

 

The mirror above it also confirmed what they’d suspected, the glamour was still very much in effect, her rather sharp nosed, pointy faced reflection looking at her in surprise. It was disconcerting to see another person staring back at you, moving when you moved, but she didn't have time to consider it. 

 

She traveled quickly along the length of the dresser, grabbing what she could from the ornate boxes atop it, anything that was small and looked valuable really.

 

They didn't need much, the distribution of wealth in this area was such that even the smallest trinket or jewel could get them the basics. From what she was seeing though there was no shortage here, this room obviously belonged to someone of importance in the household. She supposed  every room was filled with such finery.

 

Killian’s satchel, secreted inside the manor under the cover of her blue cloak was filled with golden linked chains, earrings and rings of precious stones and metals, a handful of golden coins that clinked against each other at the bottom. The familiar spike of adrenaline that came from just  _ taking _ made her grin as she finished up, a small part of her reveling in the freedom being unknown in a different realm brought you.

 

It was less than a minute and she had more than enough, which was better than she could say for most jobs she had done in her delinquent days. She just hoped Killian was ready below. 

 

The window opened easily, and she looked down to the side yard and let out a breath of relief seeing Killian at the reins of the same cart that had been positioned under the window for the better part of an hour. She could see him letting out his own breath of relief when he saw her appear, and the beginnings of a proud smile. 

 

The cart’s other obvious advantage, in addition to it’s convenient placement and absent owner, was that it was filled with bags of grain, which looked a great deal softer than their other options of chicken cages and wooden barrels of wine and ale. Still, she hesitated despite the perfect positioning and the cushy appearance of the sacks, the height causing her heart to skip and her throat to close. 

 

Killian steadied the horses, and smiled up at her encouragingly, calling up to her.

 

“You can do it, love.” 

 

The formerly industrious people in the courtyard had stopped their preparations and were starting to stare, but none made a move towards them, not yet, confusion keeping them back. Emma knew it wouldn't last, she had to  _ move.  _ The steward and the guard would get out there eventually and the guards milling about were already putting hands to weapons.

 

At his nod, Emma leapt, the thrill of freefall barely had a chance to register before she hit the bags, which were a lot less soft on impact than they appeared, stealing the breath from her lungs with a groan and a wheeze.

 

She heard Killian give an indistinct shout at the horses, the crack of leather on flesh, and the cart jerked forward.

 

Shouts and yells quickly joined the rumbling of the cart’s wheels on the stone of the courtyard and then just as quickly on the wood of the bridge. They were maybe the owner’s, realizing his cart was gone, maybe the steward’s calling for their capture, or maybe the guards in the courtyard, realizing it was a trifle odd that a woman had leapt from one of their employer’s windows. Regardless, the cart was moving faster and faster as Killian slapped the leather reins and yelled encouragements at the animals hitched to it. 

 

Emma sat up, the gate flying past them as he turned into the main road, the horses worked into a full gallop by the time they reached the first bend. Behind them a few armored men kept up the chase on foot as best they could, but gave up before the pair were even fully out of sight. She could just make out the portly steward bellowing at them from the entrance as they rounded the corner. 

 

Killian didn't ease up though, not until they had reached the bottom of the summit just at the edge of the city proper. He slowed the horses with a gentle “Whoa”, the beasts snorting and pawing at the dirt, excited and fueled by the fairly new experience of an unscheduled sprint down the mountainside. 

 

He jumped down and practically ran to the back of the cart helping her to the ground with the most infectious grin Emma had ever seen. Emma’s heart was pounding in her chest the thrill making her blood sing. She wanted to laugh, her giddiness threatening to spill over as she clutched his forearms, trying hard not to shake him in her excitement. 

 

“Come, we have to get under cover. Back alleys are a much safer method of travel,” he grabbed her hand in his much larger and much warmer one, and began to pull her away.

 

“What about the horses?” Emma looked behind her at the animals, still panting and flicking their tails on the path.

 

“They’ll be fine. They’ve traveled that road a thousand times love, they’ll work their way back home,” as he spoke the horses sure enough were making a huge arc to turn themselves around. 

 

He tugged her into a deserted alley way, half hidden from the road, huddling closer. He blocked her body from sight, her back against the wall of the last building on the row, Killian grinning down at her.

 

“Let's see then, ante up sweetheart,” Emma was already one step ahead of him, pulling his satchel over her head excitedly. 

 

He held up his prize, the steward’s purse, heavy with coin, no doubt lifted in the chaos. He tossed it up and caught it in his hand, raising an eyebrow at her in challenge. 

 

“Oh, that's nothing,” Emma laughed out as he opened the flap of the leather bag. Killian leaned across her peering inside around the usual contents at the new treasures she had secured. 

 

His eyes widened in disbelief and he let out a laugh of his own.

 

“You are bloody brilliant,” the bag dropped forgotten between them.

 

Killian joyously pulled her into a brief excited hug, that was little more than the bumping of chest on chest just enough to make her gasp at the unfamiliar contact before he was pulling her back to stand before him, hand gripping her shoulder. “Incredible.”

 

Emma felt her breath catch as his eyes, bright with excitement and  _ pride  _ roamed her face. He was going to kiss her, she could feel it, she just knew it. Emma braced herself, anticipation twisting her stomach unsure if this is what she wanted, unsure if it was right, all the air trapped in her lungs as the moment stretched out between them. 

 

But he caught himself again, she could see the instant he realized it, the instant he remembered. The light in his eyes dimmed a bit as he smiled even harder, more a grimace than a grin now. He merely gave her shoulder another, rather firm squeeze and stepped back out of her space.

 

Emma swallowed, frozen as he leaned down to pick up the satchel. 

 

“This is more than enough to get what we need,” he said finally. His voice sounded a little hoarse.

 

“We'll make the necessary arrangements in town and give the remainder to the people at the base of the mountain.” He was refusing to look at her again, just like on the road before, busying himself with arranging the bag under his coat. 

 

“They could certainly use it,” Emma said with forced cheer.

 

“Aye. We’ll get what we need and make haste to King Midas’s palace where we can rendezvous with your father. If fortune remains on our side we’ll get home before you even start to feel slightly sleepy, lass,” Killian sent her a smile that was just a fake as hers, and peered around the corner to make sure the coast was clear. 

 

Emma forced herself to smile even brighter, following him onto the street, but it didn't matter, he wasn't letting himself look at her anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Hook do a bit of shopping and things go horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta capitaine-odette without which this probably wouldn't be the story it is today.

______

 

The more pressing matter, to Emma’s mind after all that excitement, was food. The last real meal they had eaten that wasn't tiny unsatisfying bits of charred rabbit meat was at the ball, and that had been days ago now. 

 

Killian had frowned at the suggestion, much preferring to get what they needed and eat something cold and quick on the road, the idea of wasting time not sitting well with him in the least. But he had taken one look at Emma’s pleading face, at the weariness and anxiety in her eyes, and very soon found himself leading her through the shadowy alleyways of the city until they came upon the district they needed. 

 

The small unassuming tavern was instantly recognizable for what it was: the perfect mix of respectability and anonymity, a place where deals were made and people kept to themselves. It wasn't tawdry enough to bring in a more boisterous criminal element, lacking the women and the reputation found at establishments further up the road, but it wasn't fine enough for the other set either, no highbrow gentlemen's club here. What was left were people who just wanted to mind their own business, the nature of which was varied and often not exactly legal, but nonetheless quiet and discreet. Precisely what the pair required.

  
  


The main room was dimly lit, only a few windows remained unshuttered, and no candles were spared for the comfort of the guests, letting most of the patrons remain hidden from view. Emma kept her hood up, pulling the edges around her face as they made their way to a table in the backmost corner. 

 

The man behind the bar, a large bearded fellow in a dingy apron and a frown, signaled them with a nod and a gesture that it would be a moment and continued on with his work. 

 

The initial excitement of their little heist had long since worn off, mellowing as they’d skulked behind the buildings, in alleys filled with mangy stray animals and the fetid stench of garbage, trying to remain out of sight as they made their way down. 

 

Emma felt drained, that long forgotten post-theft guilt and anxiety had settled in, mixing in with her regular guilt and anxiety until she was overwhelmed with the sense of impending panic. She just wanted to collapse. It had been quite awhile since she had been in a position to feel that shame again, most of the more questionable acts she’d been engaging in recently were for a good cause not personal gain, so it was both familiar and uncomfortable to remember what this was like.

 

Still, they needed the money now that their stay had been extended against their will, and it wasn't as if they had the time to make a respectable living, or even the skills to do so. A former thief from the modern world and a shipless pirate from another century didn't exactly have the means to make an honest go of it.

 

“Do you think they’ll be coming after us?” Emma whispered, scanning the room for any sign of the guards they had left at the peak, or anyone else that might cause them trouble. The list of enemies seemed to be growing.

 

“I suspect not,” Killian murmured. He sat with his back against the wall, squinting as he took his own survey of the place, voice pitched low.

 

“Telling his Lordship that they’ve lost a sizable sum of his gold on the same day of his party?” Killian raised an eyebrow and smiled across the table at her. “I can’t imagine that would go over well.” 

 

Still, he gave the room one more covert sweep, feigning nonchalance as he did to make sure no one had followed them. Satisfied, Killian turned his attention back to her.

 

“I doubt we have any cause for concern, love. Even if he did endeavor to hunt us down I don't think they had a man to spare what with all the to do. The steward is more likely to simply bribe that rather incompetent guard for his silence and no one will ever be the wiser. The rest of it can be easily explained away.”

 

“You think that’s what he’ll do?” Emma bit her lip and turned towards the door, fully expecting an entire complement of guards to burst through at any second.

 

“Aye. Though I suppose if he’s an honorable sort of fellow he wouldn't hesitate to throw himself on the fire, as it were, but did he strike you as having a particularly noble mien?” Killian asked pointedly.

 

Emma shook her head, many words came to mind to describe the rather rotund steward but “noble” and “honorable” were not among them. Then again, the encounter had been brief. Seeing she wasn't quite convinced he tried a different tact.

 

“Honestly Swan, a man who resides in a house literally made of gold probably doesn't concern himself with a few spare coins and tasteless jewelry, especially if it's not his own. And his master certainly won't notice, man like that, playing King of the Mountain while his  _ vassals _ starve and suffer below,” Killian was practically growling at the thought, his expression turning dark. “Which, as you remember, is why he made such an apt target.”

 

“But what about the timeline?   _ You _ said we needed to be careful. What about the run over dwarves and drunken babies and the ripples and all that stuff?” 

 

Killian blinked at her bewildered for a moment.

 

“Where were these concerns  _ before _ we planned the  _ robbery _ ?” Killian hissed, his voice rising a few octaves disbelievingly as he cast a furtive glance around.

 

Emma shrugged, sheepish.

 

“I don't know! It just hit me when I was looking at-” she gestured to herself, “-not me, in the mirror, and sneaking around in gross back alleys to avoid being  _ arrested _ , that we’re not exactly treading lightly here.” 

 

“At this point, love, I think we’ll have to shoot for taking care of the huge, disastrous events, like I dunno, erasing you from existence, and  _ then _ we can think about if a missing earring will cause the timeline to implode,” Killian pursed his lips.

 

“Look buddy, I'm just following your advice, ‘proceeding with all due caution,’ ” she imitated in a poor attempt at his accent. 

 

He pursed his lips even harder if that was possible but looked again, scanning her face. He seemed to find what he wanted in her mocking frown and leaned back.

 

“What's really bothering you? You know as well as I we needed food and weapons to get back to your father and I’d much rather have a man like  _ that _ finance us then the people who are forced to work for him. A sentiment I know you share. So what's really wrong here?”

 

Emma sighed and glanced down to the table, her voice softer when she spoke again.

 

“Last time I made a decision we almost brought _Zelena_ back with us, and that poor woman died because of _me_. Someone lost their life because I made a bad call.” Emma tried to swallow around the lump that was forming her throat. “Enough has gone wrong already, I just… I don't know what I'm doing.” 

 

A nervous laugh bubbled out against her will but she continued on.

 

“I don't want to die in this stupid place where you’re the only one who knows who I am. I want to go  _ home, _ to the same place we left, the same  _ way _ we left it without bringing back a psychopath who is going to try to kill everyone I care about. And even if we do get back without her, what if everything is wrong because I screwed it all up?” She couldn't quite manage to keep her voice from cracking and her eyes burned. She finished with an uncomfortable shrug and took in a deep shuddering breath to try and regain some control.

 

She only caught a glimpse of Killian’s softening expression before he was reaching across the table, taking her hand in his own, thumb brushing across the knuckles. 

 

“That woman didn’t die because of  _ you _ , love,” Killian said softly. 

 

Emma tried to look away but he wouldn't let her, following her eyes with his own until she relented, until she could see the earnestness and sincerity in his face. 

 

“You did what you could to save her, more than anyone else would have I assure you, but fate has a way of correcting its course. She was slated to die at the hands of one sister or another it seems, and that has nothing to do with your choices _.  _ It's what was supposed to happen all along.”

 

Emma opened her mouth to argue but Killian continued, his tone becoming firmer, his grip on her hand tightening. 

 

“You are  _ not _ the responsible party here Swan, but I swear to you, we’ll find the one who is and you’ll stop her. Just like you always do,” he gave her a sad sort of smile, and forced it into a grin. “We just have to see a Prince about getting your magic back.”

 

Emma did her best to return it but could tell by his face she didn't quite succeed.   

 

She gave his hand a squeeze back instead.

 

“I am going to get you home, Emma,” there was the fierceness again, that grim determination, it made his blue eyes blaze with an intensity that made her breath catch, “No matter what I have to do to do it.” 

 

Emma swallowed, a flare of  _ something  _ licked up her spine. It was so much, too much. A sea of emotions stretched out between them, the proof of his words in every action he’d taken, no doubt in every action he would inevitably take. That’s just who he was. But she was something else, half-formed and stunted, too scared to take any action at all.

 

She, instead, gave another nervous laugh, another lingering squeeze, before she pulled her hand back, reaching up with it to nervously tuck her hair behind her ear. 

 

“Always with the speeches,” she muttered, exasperated. Killian leaned back in his chair with an embarrassed roll of his eyes. Emma smiled in return, succeeding a bit more this time, the anxiety in her chest easing a bit as she peered around the tavern once more, letting out a shaky exhale.

 

“So. How much of the gold do you think it would take to persuade him to whip up a grilled cheese?”

 

____

  
  


Emma gasped as they stepped out of yet another shadowy backstreet of the city and into what seemed to be it’s very heart. An entire curving lane opened up before them to reveal a bustling marketplace filled with stall after stall of everything one could possibly think of. 

 

There were baskets upon baskets of brilliantly colorful produce, stands with beautiful antique clocks and tables covered with shining silver tea sets gleaming next to copper pots and porcelain tureens. It went on and on down the road, a rainbow sea of fabric roofs and pennants waving in the sky. 

 

Filling in the spaces between the larger shops were even more vendors with rolling pull carts or wooden tables with simple trappings. Interspersed here and there were merchants on foot walking the length, baskets of wares slung on their arms or pushed before them in rattling wooden wheelbarrows, and street performers plying their crafts wherever there was space to do so.

 

The cries of barkers of varying ages and volumes filled the air, competing for the divided attentions of the shoppers who wandered up and down the lane. The vibrantly hued cloth roofs kept the more successful shop keeps out of the sun, which had just started to dip behind the mountains, the lateness of the day left the street perhaps a bit more bare than usual, but no less incredible to behold.

 

Now that she’d had a chance to adjust to the smells and the shock of so much filth and poverty on such a broad spectrum, Emma realized that despite the din and the slightly overwhelming reality of their current situation, it wasn't that much different than antiquing in the city on long weekends. 

 

The crush of the crowd, merchants pushing their wares, the back and forth of people bartering and haggling trying to get the best bargain they could, was all so familiar she could almost pretend for a second that she was back in the land she knew. 

 

The difference was that here instead of a knockoff Prada shoved in your face it was a brooch the size of a fist, and instead of a guy on Canal Street vouching for its authenticity it was an elderly woman who might be a witch claiming it would bring good fortune. 

 

Killian barely batted an eye at the organized chaos as he moved through the crowd, his hand reaching back towards her automatically as he made his way, but never actually grabbing her own. The urge to take it, to twine her fingers with his was overwhelming. But it was a selfish impulse, a false hope in the name of her own comfort. Instead she clasped her hands in front of her and tried to keep up. 

 

It was easy to lose themselves among these people, blending in almost instantly with the eclectic mix of citizens who were going about their business. The various stations and social classes of the city all seemed to converge together here in the marketplace at the middle of the mountain. The wealthy and poor intermingling to shop and trade side by side, so that their own contrasting attire didn't seem exceptionally odd or out of place, and her hood offered her some protection.

 

Good thing too, because Killian was a man on a mission, their impromptu supper had already delayed them more than he’d liked, and he had no time to concern himself with stealth or discretion.  Emma hurried after him, trying to keep up with his longer limbs and more determined gait, but everywhere she looked there was something interesting and fun to see.

 

She had seen her fair share of street vendors and performers in her life, but this was like living in a movie. There was a man in little more than rags and dirt playing a humble set of wooden pipes which sang sweetly into the late afternoon air, while just a few feet away women in gorgeous, elaborate, and no doubt expensive, silks danced to the thumping, pulsing rhythms of accompanying drums.

 

Just beyond that study in contrasts, two men with braided beaded beards and jaunty hats juggled a variety of things between themselves, knives and swords and oranges by the looks of it, laughing and joking for the benefit of the crowd as they tossed weapons and fruit higher and higher. 

 

Emma gasped as one than the other threw shining iron blades into the air and caught the quarters of a cleanly cut orange in one set of hands while the other caught the implements of its destruction.

 

It wasn't until Hook was resting a palm lightly on her shoulder that she realized she hadn't been moving, stopping dead her in tracks to watch the spectacle on the fringes of an already fairly substantial crowd. 

 

“Swan? What's wrong?” He looked so concerned staring down at her, scanning her for injuries or issues that it was almost embarrassing to admit that she had just been mesmerized by the show. 

 

“Sorry I was just watching,” she gestured to the two men sheepishly. They were quickly tossing the swords between them now, blades flying from one man to the other in rapid succession.

 

“Ah,” Killian watched them for a moment, unimpressed. “Bloody waste of a good sword if you ask me, cutting fruit and flipping all about.”

 

Emma gave him a sardonic look.

 

“Please. I've seen you fight remember? I’ve  _ fought  _ you. I seem to remember quite a lot of unnecessary twirling going on.”  Emma said dryly and made a little spinning motion with her fingers. Hook pretended to be affronted.

 

“That “unnecessary twirling” is a very deliberate battle tactic,” he said, smirking down at her. 

 

“Oh a  _ battle tactic _ ,” Emma echoed back with mock seriousness, eyebrows raising in amusement. 

 

“Aye, a battle tactic,” he leaned over, nudging her with his shoulder as they walked. “I could take a page from your book, Swan, and just kind of, charge full speed at my opponents whilst bellowing.” He made a little movement like he was pouncing before stepping out of arm’s reach to avoid her slap.

 

He was still grinning when they reached their first stop.

 

The man behind the roughly hewn counter of the stall was friendly enough, smiling at the pair as they stopped before him. He set aside the largest needle Emma had ever seen, the shape of something round and leather coming together on his bench, a brand new satchel or pouch by the look and size of it, and wiped his palm on a graying smock.  

 

The stall was covered from roof to floor with already completed bags and pouches of every conceivable shape and purpose. There were smaller fabric coin purses with elaborate metal or hook-button clasps all in a neat little row, sturdy leather satchels uncannily close to the one Killian wore across his chest hanging from pegs on the supporting beams, and huge animal hide saddlebags draped along the roof, crammed in wherever they could be, swinging slightly in the breeze. 

 

Killian had a particular interest in the satchels. His hand reached out to a few, lightly caressing the leather, rubbing it between his thumb and pointer.

 

“What about this one, love?” He glanced back to Emma.”The book takes up most of the space in my own, but this would do for light provisions and water, aye?”

 

The bag was lovely, a soft brown supple leather with an incredibly intricate rose detail embossing on the flap that he stroked absentmindedly with his fingertips before turning back for her decision. The bag was prettier than all the others of its kind, serviceable but still somehow romantic, a gift one would give a lover or someone equally as special.

 

She tried not to look too deeply into his selection, he did have tastes that ran more flamboyant than most, it might not be about her at all.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Emma said faintly, stepping forward next to him, her fingers brushing the rose as well. “You won't get all jealous that my bag is fancier than yours will you?” Emma tilted her head to the side and smirked up at him. 

 

Killian opened his mouth to respond, his eyes twinkling with mirth, but the man was already placing it on the counter before them, grinning the grin of a merchant who knows he’s about to make a sale. 

 

“How much,” Killian said instead, tearing his gaze from Emma, still very much amused. He leaned back into what Emma recognized as his “intimidating pirate captain” stance and eyed the shopkeep with an amused but calculating eye, looking for something in particular in the other man’s expression. 

 

She could see him doing this in other settings, securing supplies for his crew or navigating the glittering marketplaces of far off lands, authoritative and confident, a man of means and money, respectful but not to be crossed. 

 

It made her smile. In her world he was often on the back foot, catching up with the rest of them, navigating modernity itself. This was his world, and he very much commanded it. It was thrilling to watch somehow, pride filling her chest to see him so determined and self-assured. It was also extremely appealing. Confidence had always looked good on him.

 

“Bag like this? Bout 5 gold,” the man motioned to it, “That’s quality construction, that is.” He looked Killian dead in the eye, not quite a challenge but certainly the face of a man who would not be swayed on what he deemed a good price. 

 

There was a pause.

 

“Alright, fair enough.” Lucky for him, that seemed to be the correct answer. Killian reached into the satchel and cheerfully withdrew what was closer to double that amount in golden coins and laid them on the counter, picking up their purchase in exchange. “Much obliged, mate.” He gave the gobsmacked merchant a respectful nod of the head. 

 

Turning to Emma he smiled down at her as he carefully draped it over her head, laying the strap carefully across her shoulder, reaching up to adjust her hood around it.

 

“There, lass. Just a few more things to fill this up, and then we can be on our way.” 

 

“Wait!” The merchant reached out, practically scrabbling after them, his face shining with a gratitude that warmed Emma’s heart to see. Obviously thankful for Killian’s generosity. 

 

“Sir! How’s about something else for your lovely wife? For your kindness sir, I insist. Her pick.” He raised an eyebrow at them and motioned to the arrangement of small coin pouches in varying shades and patterns. “A pretty purse for a pretty lady.” 

 

“Oh we’re not-” Emma automatically went to correct the man, smiling politely, flushing red with embarrassment and guilt. 

 

Killian had frozen beside her, all sign of his good cheer gone in one sharp intake of breath and one dejected shuffle out of her space. Killian motioned to the earnest shopkeep and his collection with the sweep of his arm and stepped back out of her way. 

 

“Whatever you’d like, Swan,” he coughed, and turned away from her, scouting ahead for their next destination. 

 

Awkwardly Emma reached out, grabbing one without really seeing it and muttered a brief uncomfortable thank you to the pleased merchant before trailing after her tense companion.

 

_____

  
  


The rest of their purchases were completed with a hard and determined efficiency. Killian had no time for games or bartering, just a simple exchange of goods for money. Even Emma, as unfamiliar as she was with the realm’s currency, could tell that many of the less scrupulous merchants took one look at Killian’s fine coat and new boots and charged far more than would normally be deemed acceptable. 

 

He didn’t balk or argue beyond a few rather severe and annoyed faces. There was none of the playful testing he’d engaged in with the first vendor, he didn’t try to haggle, he just laid markedly too many coins on their counters and waved his hand impatiently for them to hurry it along. A few had protested that he was paying too much, they couldn’t possibly accept, but he just snapped at them and ordered them to carry on.

 

A simple copper lantern at the metalsmiths, some skins for water, dried meats that reminded Emma of gas station beef jerky, hard cheeses still in their rinds, a half dozen smaller, easily portable fruits, all wrapped up and deposited without ceremony into her brand new beautiful satchel before she could scarcely think. In fact, keeping up with him at all was a challenge. He swept through the crowd from stall to stall, glancing back occasionally to make sure she was following, but only when he stopped to actually buy something was Emma able to finally catch up. 

 

He wasn’t being deliberately rude, she could tell that by the apologetic expression every time she came up on his side, and the way he carefully asked her preferences on the food selections. But he was also single-minded in purpose, and he was definitely shutting her out. 

 

It was such a remarkable difference from the man who had comforted her in the tavern just hours before, who had made such sweeping declarations, who had looked at her so openly, with so much hope despite everything that had happened, despite curses and grim realities. Emma had felt helpless more often than she’d like in her existence, but this was something else entirely, this was hopelessness. There wasn’t a single thing she could do or say to make this right, it was what it was. She couldn’t give him what he wanted, and she was too crippled by fear and insecurity to even try. They had the proof of that now. 

 

So they both forged ahead, him moving like a man possessed from booth to booth, and her just trying to keep up while ignoring the reason he was so on edge as much as she possibly could. 

 

Which was why it was absolutely no surprise when she lost him.

 

She had been too captivated by the elaborate little figures on display at the booth nearby to notice when he continued on without her.

 

Tiny wooden puppets on thin delicate strings danced in the breeze, and brightly colored wooden animals formed a beautiful menagerie on the counter of the stall. She had just reached out to touch a small, but incredibly detailed carving of what looked like a hawk when she realized that his familiar mop of hair and the shiny brown coat were nowhere in sight. Nor was the man he had been asking for directions.

 

“Really?” Emma said to no one, and sighed. “Damnit, Hook.” 

 

She stood up on her tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd. He couldn’t have gone that far, it had been just a moment. 

 

Emma had been in far, far worse situations before, she wasn’t going to panic. She refused to panic. There were really only two directions he could even go. 

 

There were too many people in too small a space though, and she wasn’t tall enough to really get a good vantage point. Short of climbing on one of the tables there was no way she was going to see anything from where she stood. She whirled trying to make sure he hadn’t just simply gone in the other direction.

 

There was the briefest flash of red hair in her peripheral vision when she turned around, and Emma froze. Her hand flew up automatically to grip the strap of her bag, heart and breath seizing in her chest. Her first thought was of the guard, that he had found her, that maybe he had found Killian first and that’s why he had vanished from sight. But there was no one there, no one with red hair anywhere near her even, and certainly no complement of armed soldiers ready to take her away or any hint of the bumbling fool of a sentry itching to drag her back up the mountain.  

 

She swallowed down the rising swell of panic, heart pounding in her ears. 

 

“Not a big deal, I’ll find him,” Emma muttered, sucking in a deep calming breath. “Or he’ll find me. Either way. No big deal.” She nodded decisively to herself, taking in another deep breath, and set off in the direction she had seen him last, hoping he was just around the bend and just out of sight. 

 

He wasn’t.

 

Emma took yet another deep lungful of air, and tried her tiptoes again.

 

What had previously seemed whimsical and fun and slightly familiar was now a bit threatening and ominous. The crowd of people who had offered anonymity and safety were now dangerous and claustrophobic. 

 

This wasn’t her world at all. These weren’t her people. Being turned around in a big city was one thing, she knew how that game was played, had actually lived on those streets, but here in this world she knew nothing.

 

It certainly didn’t help that along with every brief flash of the worst possible outcomes for Killian, him chained up, battered and bloodied, dead, she was also reminded of the last time she had been in this situation. 

 

_ Accomplice.  _

_ Left behind.  _

_ Authorities on the lookout.   _

 

The steward and his guard had gotten an extremely good look at her face after all, could probably paint a picture, and she had no one but Hook to vouch for her. And he was currently missing. At least this time she didn’t actually have some of the stolen goods on her person.

 

Which was also concerning. 

 

She had no money, again, and no weapon if something bad had actually happened to Killian. She also had no idea how to get  _ anywhere _ . She couldn't navigate by the sun, the only compass she’d used that wasn't some pointless app on her phone was for magical portal navigation, and she didn't even have the coin to buy a map. She was decidedly not in her element.

 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Emma muttered. “It’s been literally like three minutes.” 

 

Determinedly Emma shook off the dire thoughts. Killian had to be somewhere, and if something  _ had _ happened to him in the brief moments she was distracted by dumb wooden animals she would deal with that too. Just like they always did.    

 

“Are you looking for your friend?” A little voice called up to her. Emma started and looked down. 

 

The owner was a tiny little girl, no more than 6 or 7, slightly dirty in her clay colored shift and stringy black hair, huge blue eyes looking up at Emma questioningly. She had a basket in her arms that was almost the same size as her entire body, filled with flowers of several different varieties, some that had seen better days while others were fresh and vibrant.

 

The basket was so full she had to lean back with the weight of it, but she seemed cheerful enough.

 

“Yes!” Emma eagerly swept over to her. “Did you see where he went?” 

 

The girl nodded.   

 

“I could take you,” the girl hefted the basket a little higher. “If you promise to buy a flower.” 

 

“What?” Emma looked at her confused and the girl lifted her basket. “Yes, yes, of course. If you can get me to my friend he’ll totally buy a flower. I promise he will.”

 

“Okay then. Follow me!” 

 

Emma was only too happy to oblige, relief flooding in as they began a slow progress through the crowd. The girl was easy to keep up with, the basket banged against her legs with each stilted step, but she shook her head emphatically when Emma offered to take it from her. Actually, she narrowed her eyes and pulled the handle closer to her tiny chest and shook her head emphatically, like Emma was trying to steal it or take it away from her. There was little doubt others had tried to take it from her before for less helpful reasons, and probably succeeded a time or two if her determined stance was any indication. That prospect hurt Emma’s heart. She could only imagine the type of life this child led. Her own had been no picnic but she had a feeling this girl had it much worse.

 

They walked for far too long, edging their way through the crowd, neither slowing down nor speeding up, just keeping a steady pace down the winding lane. They were running out of market. It also just seemed like a long way for him to go. No way Killian wouldn't have noticed she was missing and stopped to find her by now. She knew him. He was the guy who always checked on her first when there was even a hint of danger. The guy who’s eyes automatically seemed to seek her out just to mark her position. He was as hyper aware of her existence as she was his. He would know.

 

He wouldn’t just give her up for lost in some strange city market.  

 

But with each determined step the girl made that took them further and further away from the last place she’d seen him Emma became less and less certain.

 

“Are you sure you saw  _ my _ friend?” Emma asked her when the last of the stalls became visible up the way. The girl glanced back at her as they walked. “Taller than me, wearing a shiny brown coat, black hair, super blue eyes?” Emma stuck her fingers up on her head to indicate the state of Killian’s hair. “That friend?”  

 

The girl just nodded distractedly and motioned with the basket for Emma to keep going. 

 

“This way!” She trudged forward. “I know where your friend is.” She repeated insistently.

 

There was a prickle of unease between the blades of Emma’s shoulders, like something was off, but the girl wasn’t lying. Not as far as Emma could tell. The child motioned impatiently with the basket again, and started forward once more. Emma reluctantly followed after. She kept her guard up though, and her eyes peeled. That imagined flash of red hair was still very much on her mind, and the knot in her stomach seemed to grow with every step they took further and further away from the booth with the wooden carvings.

 

“Where are we going?” Emma asked, 

 

“This way,” the girl repeated and smiled back at Emma sweetly.  

 

“Yeah, but where does this way go?” Emma tried again. 

 

“Through the market.”

 

Emma huffed, annoyed, and stopped walking entirely, putting her hands on her hips.

 

“Look kid, I appreciate the help, but where did you see ‘my friend’ at  _ exactly _ ?” 

 

“I-” the girl opened her mouth to respond but before she could Emma felt a strong grip on her arm, a hand trying to turn her around.

 

Emma cried out and reacted automatically, her hand balling up on its own accord and swinging wildly. It connected with something, or rather someone, solid, and a familiar voice cried out in protest. 

 

“Bloody hell, what was that for?” Killian yelped, glaring down at her. His wooden hand came up to rest on the side of his head where she had struck with her arm, rubbing with it absentmindedly.

 

“I thought it was a trap!” Emma said. “Where the hell did you go?” 

 

“A trap? Why in the realms would it be a trap?” He looked at her bewildered and hurt. “I went to the armorer. I didn't realize you hadn’t kept up until I'd already arrived.”

 

“I stopped for a whole ten seconds to look at something, but you were too busy being an ass to notice you left me,” Emma snapped. 

 

She knew logically he hadn’t meant to, and it was technically her fault for not paying attention, but she had been worried and scared, and now she was relieved, but also still worried, and it was all just coming together to form angry. She wanted to cry but it was much easier to be pissed instead.

 

“Being an ass? I didn’t leave you, I would never-,” Killian sputtered for a moment and then closed his eyes briefly, composing himself. “I thought you were right behind me.”

 

“Well I wasn’t,” Emma bit out. She felt foolish being so angry, seeing how concerned and distressed he looked now standing before her, but she couldn't seem to push the feeling away. She was happy to see him, certainly, relieved that all the terrible scenarios she had imagined were wiped away by having him whole and healthy, in the flesh. 

 

But she was also furious. Furious that he’d made her worry, furious that his stubborn single mindedness had potentially put them in danger. Furious that she had been so _ afraid. _

 

She decided instead to focus on the immediate situation, noticing that he was carrying a brown leather belt and a sword.  

 

“What's that,” she gestured to it grumpily. 

 

“Your new sword,” he indicated his own, already resting in its new home on his hip. “The road to The Golden Castle is one of the most dangerous in the realm.” He handed her the weapon in its sheath and the belt warily, like she might strike him again, possibly with the sword. “I felt we should be adequately protected on our journey.”  Killian looked down. “And who’s this?”

 

Emma had forgotten about the odd little girl at her side who was looking at Killian with a curious disappointment. Emma pulled the belt around her waist, looking down as she pulled it through the straps and buckles.

 

“She said she saw you and she took me this way. But you came from that way,” Emma frowned at the little girl, adjusting the belt at her hips. “Is this “my friend”?” 

 

The girl hesitated a minute and shook her head which sent a jolt of unease straight to Emma’s gut. She looked at Killian. He was unaware anything was amiss and was giving the child an uncomfortable smile.

 

“Who were you taking me too then?” Emma asked slowly, trying to keep herself calm. 

 

The girl shrugged and looked down kicking at the dirt with a well worn leather boot that had certainly seen better days.

 

“You promised if I helped you find your friend you might buy a flower from me. I thought he’d be this way.” The girl said in a small voice and looked back up. “I have to sell them all.”

 

Emma glanced over at Killian again, unsure. He, however, was smiling in earnest at the little girl now, reaching into his bag.

 

“Well love, you certainly gave it your best effort. I think that deserves a reward, don't you?”

 

He pressed several of the coins and a few of the gold and silver chains into the girl’s tiny palm.

 

“That should be more than enough for all of them I think,” he said and plucked a bright pink camellia looking flower from the bunch and passed it under his nose, breathing deeply. “What do you say, is that fair?”

 

The girl stared wide eyed down at the loot in her palm for a moment before remembering where she was and shoved it frantically into her pocket. 

 

“But what about the rest of them?” The girl looked at the basket. “Don’t you want them all?” 

 

“Not a lot of use for flowers where we’re going sweetheart,” Killian kneeled down to the girl’s level. “But nothings to stop you from reselling the lot and keeping the profits for yourself.” He winked at her. “That’s what I’d do.”

 

The child looked from Emma then to Killian and back again then picked up her flower basket without ceremony and ran full speed in the direction she had been guiding Emma. 

 

“Well, how’s that for gratitude,” Killian scoffed goodnaturedly and rose, dusting his knee off with the back of his prosthetic. 

 

“I don’t think she was leading me to you,” Emma said absently trying to see where the girl had gone.

 

“No matter now Swan, for here I am,” Killian gave a little bow and twirled the flower in front of her, his lip curving into a smirk. 

 

“May I offer an apology?” 

 

Emma jerked her attention back to him, still feeling a bit agitated but the cheeky expression on his face, the raised eyebrow, and the pretty flower in his hand was making her worry difficult to maintain.

 

“Don’t think you can buy me off with flowers, Hook,” she pressed her lips together to show her annoyance but her heart wasn’t in it. She was so happy to see him even though it had really only been minutes, but her imagination had run away with her, terrible thoughts going through her head when she'd realized he was gone. He looked so ridiculous standing there, all silly boyish charm, it all just kind of melted away.

 

“Oh I wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, and reached over. Emma made herself hold still as she watched his hand come up, flower pinched between his fingers. Her first instinct was to pull back, pull away, but she knew if she did he would stop and she didn’t want him to stop. 

 

His pinky slowly brushed the shell of her ear as he gently moved the hair out of the way combing through and lifting the strands with care. Emma swallowed, eyes locked on his, chest tight as he tucked the stem behind it. She breathed in a trembling breath.

 

“There,” Killian said softly. “Lovely.”  He stepped back out of her space and Emma tried not to sigh, standing up straighter and taller instead. 

 

“Now, I knew flowers wouldn’t buy me an apology. But I thought I’d try weaponry?” He grinned down at her and held up a small but wickedly sharp dagger between them. The handle was silver and onyx, simple but beautiful. 

 

“Apology accepted,” she said with a whisper, taking it from him and slipping it into her bag. Killian looked pleased. 

 

“Come lass, the sooner we reach The Gold Road the more daylight we have left to travel it. We’ll walk through the night but the less darkness we have to deal with the better.”  

 

Emma nodded as she followed them down, casting one last lingering look behind her. 

 

_____

  
  


“Street lamps,” Emma said, breaking the not uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them.

 

Killian had been keeping up a steady commentary of the area as they’d walked. The Gold Road was a passage he had made his way along a time or two in various capacities; it was good hunting grounds for those who sought the wealth of others, if one had the patience to wait for the right prey to come along. Most avoided the road if they could though, its reputation preceding it, but those who didn’t were usually well worth the wait, arrogant and wealthy beyond belief. They were neither, but for them there was no faster or more direct way to The Golden Castle and her father, so it was a risk they had to take.

 

Her feet were killing her, the soles feeling as if someone had been beating them steadily with a wooden stick for several hours, a dull aching burn that only a good soak in a hot bath would alleviate. She could sense exhaustion creeping in as well, the crisp coolness of the night air doing nothing to ward away the fatigue that weighed heavy on her bones. The idea that she wouldn't be able to sleep despite how drained she currently felt scared her, the fear more real now that she was actually starting to grow tired. She was pretty sure, based on how she felt at present, she could nap for a hundred years if given the opportunity.

 

Killian looked over at her curiously. 

 

“Come again, love?”

 

“One of the things I miss,” Emma gestured to the towering shadows of the trees that loomed above them, moonlight barely peeking through . “From my world. The Land Without Magic or whatever. I miss street lamps.” 

 

“Oh, aye,” He held up the lantern a bit higher for her, dangling it from his prosthetic, though it did little to reveal their path beyond a few feet. “The automatic illumination in your realm is quite marvelous,” He  admitted. “Though there are good things to be said for the lighting from mine as well.” 

 

“Oh yeah?” Emma challenged playfully. “And what’s that?”

 

“Warmth for one thing,” Killian said after a moment’s contemplation. “Not heat itself,” he said quickly when she opened her mouth to argue. “The lights in your land lack...atmosphere, romance. That kind of warmth.” 

 

“Romance,” Emma dead panned.

 

“Aye, romance. There’s a lot to be said for enjoying the glow of a hearth or a campfire.” He sounded almost wistful. “Or candlelight on the face of a beautiful woman.” He was deliberately avoiding looking at her as he spoke.

 

Emma almost stumbled and her heart lurched in her chest.

 

Killian just smiled and continued to look ahead, clearing his throat.

 

“Or reading before retiring for the evening. Much more agreeable by lamplight.”

  
  


“Yeah,” she said hoarsely after a beat. “I could see how that would be appealing I guess.“

 

He opened his mouth to reply but froze at the loud snap of a branch from the black forest beside her. His hand went automatically to his sword. 

  
“What is-” he cut her off with a look. 

 

“It seems, we’ve got company,” he murmured. “Your sword.” He slowly slid his own out of its sheath,

 

Emma complied, drawing the blade and holding it at the ready. There was that familiar spike of fear and adrenaline as she looked out into the darkness, seeing nothing but inky black and blue shadows. It was unnerving to have no idea what lay beyond the few feet of light given off by the lantern, whether it was friend or foe or prowling animal. 

 

She swallowed, gripping the hilt of her weapon tighter.

 

“Show yourself,” Killian called. “I believe you’ve given up the element of surprise.” 

 

“Didn’t need it anyway,” a voice called proudly back, the rustling in the darkness growing louder and more deliberate and closer.

 

Killian chuckled and Emma looked at him with wide eyed incredulity. This was hardly the time for laughter.

 

“Is that so?” he called back casually and leaned back slightly. “I think you’ll find that you needed every advantage at your disposal, mate.” Killian lowered the lantern and set it nonchalantly on the ground.

 

“Doubt it,” the gruff voice was given form a moment later when a large brute of a man carrying what appeared to be an axe or a hatchet stepped into the dim and flickering light. He was followed quickly by two more smaller, sneering and virtually identical men, brothers perhaps, who stumbled out of the bushes after him. 

 

They were a ragtag bunch that was for sure, wearing a hastily patched together wardrobe of ill fitting clothes, with a trio of unwashed, gnarled hair and maybe 6 good teeth between them. 

 

“What can we help you with this evening, gentleman?” Killian asked, the tip of his sword pointed squarely at the larger one’s throat. Emma held her own to the chest of the one closest to her.

 

“All yer gold for starters,” the man replied.

 

“Then I'm afraid I can be of no assistance,” Killian said apologetically. 

 

“We sawr you at the market, flashing it around, practically giving it away you was.”

 

They  _ had _ actually given most of it away. Killian pressing coins and jewelry into the hands of the wretched gaunt souls at the base of the mountain as they made their way out of town, keeping just enough for them to make it through on the off chance something went awry.

 

“Tried to get the girl to bring your lady to us for ransom, offered her a take if she did,” one of the smaller men wheezed in a nasally whine. “But she weren’t quick enough.” 

The girl. It all made sense now. The child’s sense of urgency, how nervous she was, the lie that wasn’t completely a lie. She  _ had _ seen Emma’s “friend” with the intention of reuniting them eventually, it was just under very different circumstances. 

 

“She said you was going to The Gold Road though so we followed ye,” the big man swung his hatchet in a long circling arc, smirking at them. “And we heard ye. Talking about the Prince like you knew ‘em. Fancy royal like you has to be worth quite a lot to my mind.” 

 

“And now you’re going to give us everything on your persons,” piped up the other one, drawing a sword of his own. “And then we’ll see who’s willing to pay the most for the pair of ya.”

 

“Ah,” Killian nodded agreeably. “A solid plan. However, I think I have a better idea.” 

 

Before Emma could blink his sword was slashing out, connecting solidly with the thick wooden handle of the larger man’s weapon, knocking it sideways with the force of the blow but not quite out of his grip. Killian leapt backwards out of reach just in time to avoid the clumsy swipe the man made with it in retaliation, squaring up for another go.

 

Emma didn’t even pause to think, she struck with a yell and little mercy at the smaller man closest to her. He barely got his sword up in time to deflect, surprise widening his eyes.  

 

She didn’t wait, she lashed out again, and again, striking wildly without finesse, and each time he could barely meet her blade, struggling to keep his feet under him as he scrabbled backwards. It appeared he hadn't thought she would contribute to this little exchange at all, and therein lay her advantage.

 

Beside her Killian wasn’t employing any of his “unnecessary twirling” yet, instead he attacked the two remaining men with a grim detachment, sword swinging through the air towards one while he reared back to strike the other with a sharp elbow the face. 

 

The smaller man cried out, blood spurting from his nose when bone met bone with an audible crunch, but he didn’t go down, just clutched at his face as best he could with the weaponless hand and moaned. 

 

Killian left him, and continued his assault on the biggest one, pushing him further and further back, away from the others with each clash of his blade, trying and succeeding in separating the giant man from the group.

 

It was a sound strategy, one Emma would have appreciated if she wasn’t currently distracted by her own. She kicked out, sending her opponent face down into the dirt. He cursed as his weapon skittered away. 

 

She didn’t hesitate, leaping onto his back and pinning him down while he reached out for it, the move a bit more difficult in the longer dress than her usual jeans but it wasn’t a maneuver she was unfamiliar with. He wasn’t some bandit on the road anymore, he was just another skip trying to make a run for it. 

 

He bucked beneath her, one arm pinned between her knee and his body, his free hand stretching out towards the hilt of his lost weapon. Emma held her ground, digging in her knees and rearing back with a yell to strike him as hard as she could with the pommel of her new sword. 

 

The man went limp immediately, out cold but alive. 

 

Emma gulped, satisfied and pushed herself up, whirling around to seek out Killian.

 

It seemed he had already dispatched the smaller man while she’d been distracted by the brother. He lay half in the bushes half on the road, dead or unconscious she couldn’t be sure. She very much hoped it was the latter. His face was covered in blood but he looked otherwise intact, but she had little time to care.

 

All that mattered was Killian. He was just outside her field of vision, battling in the gray-black beyond the lantern’s reach, nothing more than a moving shadow. All she could hear were the grunts and angered shouts of two men locked in combat. 

 

She rose to her feet and scrambled over, grabbing the lantern as she passed.

 

Hook had brought the larger man to his knees by the time she reached him, and a quick flick of his wrist had his sword wrapping around the handle of the axe to send it flying sideways into the dark of the forest.

 

“Now don't you wish you’d left it a surprise?” Killian asked, panting hard.  He raised his arm to strike. 

 

“Don’t!” Emma cried. “You can’t kill him.”

 

“Why ever the devil not?” Killian stopped mid-blow and looked over at her out of the corner of his eye, surprised. “He tried to kill us first.”

 

“The timeline,” Emma reminded him, out of breath herself. “He’s not supposed to die here.” 

 

“Bloody hell,” He grumbled and glared down at the man, who was sporting a rapidly swelling eye and a bloody lip, almost as tall as Emma even on his knees. Instead, Hook reared back and swung, striking the giant across the temple with the backside of his wooden hand as hard as he could. 

 

The man swayed in place for a moment and then dropped like a sack of sand backwards onto the road.

 

Killian stared down at him, chest still heaving and resheathed his sword. 

 

“He’s probably going to die in a few days anyway, walking in front of a slow moving carriage or choking on his own saliva,” he was practically pouting as he made his way over to her.

 

“Maybe, but it won't be because of you. You aren't that kind of man anymore anyway,” Emma said firmly.

 

Killian looked up at her quickly in surprise, and then away, frowning. 

 

“Aye,” he didn't sound convinced, but resheathed his sword regardless. “Are you alright there, Swan?” 

 

His hand hovered just above her arm, eyes scanning her over for any signs of injury.

 

“Yeah, nothing I couldn't-” the flurry of movement behind him had her shrieking out his name as the giant thief lurched forward, not unconscious at all.

 

He grabbed Killian around the waist with one sweeping arm, slamming him solidly to the ground with a loud grunt and a wheeze. He was on Killian in a second, pinning him beneath his much larger body, trapping his arms at his sides.

 

Emma raised her sword immediately but the hulking man was much faster and much stronger, knocking it out of her hands with a quick decisive swipe like she was nothing more than an annoying buzzing gnat. The worst of her earlier imaginings, Killian battered and bloodied and  _ gone _ , was taking shape right before her eyes, and for a moment she couldn't move, couldn't even breathe.

 

The thief turned his attention back to Hook and pressed a large beefy forearm into his throat.

 

“Shoulda given us the gold,  _ mate _ . Now, yer goin to die.”

 

“No!”

 

Emma took advantage of his momentary distraction and swung the lantern as hard as she could. 

 

Her arm vibrated with the force of the blow, the lantern’s contents exploding outwards on contact.

 

He let out a scream that had her stomach twisting, falling off Killian onto his side, his hands clutching at his face as molten hot wax seared into his flesh. 

 

He writhed on the ground in the pitch black, shrieking bellows of rage, and Emma backed away in terror. She reached down, trying to find her sword on the ground in case he got back up again, even angrier than before.

  
  


Killian was still flat on his back trying to breathe, but in another instant he was on his feet with a strained grunt, drawing his sword and striking the kneeling man with the back of it in one gasping breath. Emma sagged with relief.

 

The thief collapsed into the dirt, silent and still. 

 

“Guess he learned his lesson about the element of surprise,” Killian said without humor.

 

“Is he-?” Emma asked.

 

“He’ll live,” Killian replied bitterly and resheathed his sword again, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. “But I don't think he’ll be very happy with us when he wakes up. And he’ll be even uglier, which is quite a feat.”

 

Killian held out a hand and motioned for her to take it. 

 

“And that will no doubt be soon, so let us get as far away as possible.” 

 

Emma nodded and resheathed her own recovered blade. She stepped over the prone body of one the brothers to take his hand. She laced her fingers with his and let out a shaky exhale. Her heart was still pounding from all the excitement, and her limbs itched with adrenaline and fear.

 

“God yes.” Emma looked down at the three bodies in the moonlight and shuddered. 

 

Killian gave her a reassuring squeeze and a gentle tug on her arm to get her moving, their pace quite a bit quicker than their somewhat leisurely stroll of before. 

 

They were a good distance away from the trio when Killian went to pull his hand away with a murmured “Apologies, lass” but she held fast. 

 

“We don’t want to get separated again. Especially not when it's this dark,” Emma reasoned quickly, trying to sound casual. She was thankful he couldn't see her flush without the lantern.

 

She could barely make out his expression, just the outline of his jaw, but his answering “Aye” was slightly husky and the pressure on her hand increased almost imperceptibly.

 

Hand in hand they went onward into the night.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Killian arrive at King Midas's palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to the amazing capitaine-odette who works so hard to make this right.

_____

 

Emma fell backwards onto the log with a petulant groan, and immediately propped her foot onto an aching knee. She dug her thumbs into the arch, attempting to massage the pain away through the thin sole of her boot. The feeling that her feet had been beaten soundly with a wooden stick had only intensified as they’d continued their trek through the night, her calves and thighs joining the party as well, protesting every movement, muscles screaming. And then there was the exhaustion, which hummed at the back of her skull, an ever present threat, a lingering weight that made her eyes burn and her limbs feel even heavier. 

 

The idea that it wasn’t going to get any better, that there was nothing she could do to alleviate this, to alleviate what was coming, wasn’t a pleasant one. Her awareness of it, the constant niggling sensation of something being wrong, of being off, just made it all the worse. As it was now she was already beat after several days worth of on foot travel, of sword fighting with guards and bandits, of escaping from dungeons and committing robberies.  It wasn’t exactly a day at the spa. She had stayed up for far longer periods of time sure, but generally that was of the ‘sitting around in a heated car sipping coffee and eating take out while she waited for low lifes’ variety, not the ‘traipsing through a fairytale land in fear for her life trying to break curses’ variety.    

 

“Seriously, how do you people stand this?” Emma muttered and closed her eyes, letting out another pained groan as she switched feet and knees, bearing down harder to help minimize the dull ache.

 

Killian sent her a flash of sympathy, more concern for her well being than any real  empathy.  He seemed infuriatingly unaffected by it all, returning his attention to the castle and pushing aside some branches to get a better view. Their little hiding spot in the trees and brush just at the entrance of the main road afforded them some protection and isolation, a cozy little clearing out of sight until you were right upon it, but he was wise to be cautious.

 

The palace looked much different in the daytime, reflected back in the waters of the lake and setting them aflame with golden light. It was so overwhelmingly  _ radiant,  _ so brilliant and picturesque, a magical palace framed by forests and landscapes in the distance that were untouched by man. It was hard to look at it directly. It was one of those things that made her blink and shake her head in wonderment that this was actually her life, highwaymen on the road and castles made of pure golden stone, the stuff she’d read in books but never thought she’d experience firsthand. The reality was far more grim than her adolescent imaginings had led her to believe.

 

“It's probably best if you stay back while I go and make inquiries about your father,”  Killian turned back just in time to see her startled frown as she dropped her foot back to the ground. 

 

“What? Why?”

 

“The last time we were here you were taken prisoner by the Queen, Swan” he reminded her gently. “And I’m willing to bet that made a lasting impression." He dropped the branch and turned, slowly making his way back over to where she was collapsed in a tired heap.

 

Emma pouted a bit, hating that he was right. Hating that she had to be alone, again, and mostly just wishing she was home.

 

“Whereas to them I am just a  _ devastatingly  _ handsome and noble prince,” Killian pretended to puff out his chest a bit and sent her a smirk. “Led astray by your wicked and traitorous ways, seeking Prince James’s assistance after bandits robbed me on the road and absconded with all my worldly possessions.” 

 

He looked at her with faux innocence, the curl of his lip and the arch of his brow somewhat ruining the effect.

Emma was momentarily distracted by the shape of his mouth around the word ‘wicked’, so it took her a moment to process the full picture he was painting. She gaped at him. 

 

“Oh my god, you are actually enjoying this! Prince Charles of Corona or where ever it was,” she said accusingly, and if her feet didn’t feel like she had been walking on hot coals for several miles she would have gotten up to give him a good slap on the arm. As it was she could only stare at him incredulous as the tiny upturn transformed into a full out grin of delight. 

 

“Oh aye,” Killian agreed. “This bit at least. Usually it’s the other way around,” he gestured between them with a wave of his hand and a twirl of his fingers in the air. “Not every day I get to play the prince and someone else the pirate. Well, in public anyway.” 

 

He ran his tongue along the bottom of his teeth leaving the rest of that thought up to her imagination.

 

“Oh live it up buddy,” Emma groaned, ignoring him in favor of closing her eyes and bringing her foot back up to resume her massage. “Because I, for one, cannot wait for this to be over.” 

 

That sobered him a bit, but he still smiled at her encouragingly. 

 

“Not to worry love, I’ll fetch your father, we’ll give him the… slightly altered version of events, he’ll kiss you, break the curse, we’ll figure out a way to thwart the witch, and I’ll have you back home in bed before you know it.” 

  
Emma did raise an eyebrow at that, looking up at him under her brow and Killian grinned the same salacious grin, but this time the tips of his ears flushed that brilliant red and his hand went nervously to his belt buckle before he turned back towards the castle. Emma smiled softly to herself.

 

“Keep your sword out,” he said gruffly after another moment of refusing to look at her. “And your guard up. Stay hidden in the trees.” 

 

The idea of separating from him again, after the stint in Regina’s dungeon, and then losing him briefly in the marketplace, made her heart beat a little faster and as quickly as it came the smile was gone. There were still the bandits they had left behind on the road to worry about on top of all the other problems that were quickly piling up. No matter how easy it was to pretend otherwise there were still numerous people trying to kill or capture them. She wondered if the threesome had woken up by now, if they had kept on their trail with a wholly new motivation besides the promise of a fat ransom: revenge. 

 

They knew where they were going, had said as much. Would they risk potential capture by Midas’s guards for the opportunity for both? They may not have been exceptionally intelligent, but they were also no walk in the park, and she could only imagine what kind of fight they would put up with a day’s worth of rage and a thirst for vengeance fueling their ire.  

 

She sighed quietly and pushed them to the back of her mind, where the curse and Zelena currently dwelt, and watched through the leaves as Killian make his way around the lake towards the castle entrance until she could no longer make out the details of his form.

 

____

 

She’d made it through most of their cheese supply, using her new dagger to scrape off the rind, enjoying the quiet picnic atmosphere of the clearing, before she heard the crash and snap of something bursting through the woods. 

 

It was heading straight for her little haven by the sound of it, each rustle of leaves and pop of snapping branches grew louder and louder with every passing second. The noises came in alternating rhythmic patterns, indicating multiple steps, so it was definitely more than one person, and unfortunately for her, they were coming from the opposite direction of the castle, which also meant it was unlikely to be anyone friendly. 

 

Emma leapt to her feet as quietly as she could, transferring her dagger to her other hand to draw her sword as well. She doubted she could take the three of them alone, but she could definitely maim at least two as she went down. 

 

Light as a feather she tiptoed around the log towards the trunk of the largest tree available, and turned sideways to press her shoulder against the bark. She held her breath as blood thundered in her ears. The tree was huge thankfully and easily hid her from view, which meant she could maybe sneak around them and catch them unawares. 

 

As the steps came closer and closer she gripped the blades tighter and tighter, knuckles stark white against the hilts. There was another sharp crack of a snapping branch just feet away and Emma struck, leaping out from her hiding spot and bearing her weapons before her. 

 

“Bloody hell, lass,” Killian sucked in a sharp gasp, his hand flying between his face and the tip of her sword. He stumbled back a bit.

 

Her father looked between the pair curiously. 

 

“Is this how you two always greet each other?” David asked, only half joking.

 

“I thought you were them,” Emma let out the breath she’d been holding in one shivering exhale and sagged with relief, sword tipping towards the dirt. “You came from the wrong way.”  She accused. 

 

“Your fa-,” Killian paused and closed his eyes briefly before quickly correcting himself “-Prince James has a passage we can use to enter the castle with minimal detection.” He motioned back towards the road annoyed. “The path to reach it goes around to the other side of the hold.” 

 

Emma narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously and held up the sword again, less intensely than before but with just as much threat behind it, the dagger she left down by her side but tilted it subtly in David’s general direction.

 

“How do I know you’re really you?” She jabbed her sword forward with emphasis. She thought of Cora and Zelena, Lancelot and the woman from the cell. 

 

Killian sighed and rolled his eyes, which certainly seemed very much like him, hand still hovering in the air. He licked his lips, and rather than dignifying that notion with a response just tilted his head to the side and stared at her, hard. 

 

Also, a very Killian-esque move. 

 

Emma’s sword faltered a bit but she still didn’t let it drop completely. 

 

“When you were in the hospital after your accident-” Emma glanced to David, hoping she was keeping this sufficiently vague, wondering wildly if they even had hospitals in the Enchanted Forest “-they gave you a special food. What color was it?” She lifted the blade again with renewed purpose. 

 

Killian’s eyes were locked on her own, a lighter crystal blue in the sun, eyes that were so incredibly familiar, and she knew, before he even opened his mouth it was him, could just sense it deep in her gut, but it was still a relief when he answered without hesitation. 

“Blue,” he said. “You called it-” Emma interrupted him, eyeing David again who was looking between them with interest, his eyebrow raising slightly at that rather unexpected answer. She really hoped the existence of blue food was a normal one here, surely a land with magic had interestingly colored food as well, but she was definitely unsure of the implications of him knowing the word “Jell-o” thirty years too early and a realm removed. 

 

“No I believe you!” She lowered her weapon. “I just wanted to be sure. Every time I’m in this place I seem to fall for that.”

 

Killian still looked a bit put out, more hurt than annoyed now.

 

“Now that our identities have been confirmed, we should probably seek cover before an actual threat arrives,” he looked between the two of them for confirmation.

 

David nodded and together they helped Emma gather up her forgotten stuff, water flasks and linen wrapped provisions that had tipped out of her satchel in her haste to find cover and that now lay scattered in the dirt and leaves. Killian gave her a fondly exasperated look at the leftover rinds of now eaten cheese scattered among the debris. 

 

Emma shrugged sheepishly as she kneeled and shoved the remaining stuff back into the bag. 

 

“I got hungry,” she muttered. David chuckled understandingly and helped her back to her feet.  

 

“I’ll make sure we get you a fresh supply at the palace. They have more than enough. It’s the least I can do for your help. For both your help,” it was easy to see why the nickname Charming had stuck, he was certainly that, grinning down at her, eyes crinkling around the edges. 

 

It was so like the David she knew, her father, just a good natured jovial guy rolling with the punches and helping wherever he could. Emma felt her eyes burn and she swallowed down the quick jab of wistfulness.

 

She had been pretty removed from him during their journey, trapped in a dungeon for the majority of it and then overshadowed by Snow White, freshly back from the seemingly dead.  Interactions with him had been brief and minimal, and at the time there had been a concrete plan to get home, she would see her David in a matter of hours. Rumplestiltskin had the wand, he was going to help them, the worst of it was over and they were back on track. That was then. Things were a bit more dire now.

 

“Charles told me what happened, I’m sorry,” David looked down at her sympathetically, mistaking her expression for anxiety over the situation. “He said I might be able to help somehow and I just want you to know, I will do whatever I can.”

 

Emma inhaled shakily and stepped back, wanting put to put a little distance between them, mostly just to prevent her from throwing herself into his arms. The impulse was a silly, indulgent one. She wasn’t that kind of girl, and he had no idea who she was. Instead she just forced a watery smile. 

 

“Thank you... Prince James, that is very kind.”

  
_____

 

The hidden passage into the castle turned out to be via an old abandoned stable, a heavy golden door, once made of sturdy oak, covered in years worth of vines and moss, concealed its location within the face of the outer wall. Emma herself almost walked right past it, the gold wood blended in perfectly with the stone. Mother nature had done the rest, covering the seams and hinges with a thick creeping growth. 

 

Inside, the faint smell of manure and horse was old and stale, only overpowered by that of dust and mildew. There were moth eaten horse blankets and cracking leather tack of various types still hanging on the gilded walls, and everywhere she stepped dry hay crunched and crackled under her boots. The wooden horse stalls along the walls were black and gray with age, the wood crumbling with rot covered in green and white mold.

 

“No one will find us here, I don’t think anyone has been inside for years,” David leaned back, hands resting on his sword belt as he looked around proudly at his little hideaway. 

 

“I can see that,” Emma wrinkled her nose slightly at the smell, trying not to cough with the grit  being kicked up by their feet after years of lying undisturbed. 

 

“I was just looking for a quiet place to think and just kind of stumbled upon it,” he looked pleased with himself. 

 

“How quaint,” Killian furrowed his brows and waved away a few flurries of dust from his nose.

 

“So how can I help?” David looked between the pair of them eagerly. “I’ll soon have armies at my disposal.” He made a broad dramatic sweep with his arm. “ _ Not  _ an exaggeration by the way.” He grinned at them. 

 

Emma darted her eyes over to Killian anxiously. They had come up with a version of the truth that would work, now they just had to convince him of it.

 

“The curse the sorceress cast, was very specific, only someone Emma has spent time with recently has the power to break it. Someone within the past two days or so,” Killian explained smoothly. “We’re hoping that’s you, mate”

 

“Why me?” David asked, genuinely curious.

 

“Well you were the closest in proximity,” Killian lied, closing one eye to tilt his head and scratch behind his ear. “Excepting me of course, but we... ruled me out.” Killian finished with false brightness. 

 

She could tell the admission hurt him, and Emma had to forcibly look away to keep from going to his side. Apparently, David could sense it as well, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking at the other man with sympathy.   

 

“And it’s already been a day and a half,” Emma added. 

 

“And what would I have to do exactly?” 

 

“A kiss,” Killian said. David balked and looked between them, confused at Killian and sheepishly apologetic at Emma. 

 

“I’m sorry I don’t-” he started but Emma frantically waved her hands. 

 

“On the hand! Or the cheek. Purely platonic,” she said quickly. “A peck, not like that.” David visibly relaxed, and Emma tried not to be too offended that the idea of kissing her repulsed him so. She knew he had no idea who she was, and the request and the accompanying explanation  _ was _ a bit bizarre, but still. 

 

“Okay, we’ll just-” David stepped up to her, awkwardly maneuvering his arm around to lift her hand up. 

 

Killian shifted impatiently in anticipation next to her, and she could see him swallow out of the corner of her eye, just as nervous as she was. She wanted more than anything to grab his hand, to calm both of them a bit, but he was too far away, on the wrong side of her, and it felt too weird to just ask. Here in the light of day it seemed different, more serious, more significant. So she ignored him, focusing on her father instead.

 

Her heart thudded in her chest and her fingers twitched as David lifted her hand, smiling at her with nervous reassurance, and pressed his lips to the top of it. 

 

The entire world seemed to draw in a breath at the same time she did, a great collective worldly gasp of air, that pause of anticipatory excitement where her heart soared in relief, in hope. He lingered just a moment, his fingers curled around her own. 

 

But there was nothing. 

 

No warm whoosh of air, no brilliant pulse of shining magical energy, just cold unfamiliar lips on the back of her hand, and the man who would one day be her father staring at her expectantly, exactly like a stranger who had just been given a very odd request. A stranger who had promised him an outcome she could not deliver. 

 

Emma swallowed, her heart turning to lead in her chest, sinking into her stomach. The blood rushed into her ears, a thundering roar as she took a shuddering breath in, and held it, letting her hand drop uselessly to her side. 

 

There was a brilliant beam of sunlight, the barest bead of light in the hay and dirt of the barn from a hole in the thatch above, and she couldn’t look away from it. If she looked at him, at either of them, she would fall apart. So she focused on the pinprick of light, and tried to breathe instead.

 

“Was that it?” David glanced between them again. “Did it work?” 

 

Emma could only give the barest shake of her head, eyes focused on the tiny patch of sun. 

 

She took another shallow breath in. She let another shallow breath out. 

 

“Try it again,” Killian bit out through clenched teeth, sounding far away, just the barest hint of a wavering tremor in his voice. 

 

She knew without looking that his fist was curled at his thigh, fingernails digging into his palms. She knew him well enough by now to picture the tense set of his shoulders. His ramrod straight posture. The slight lean forward like he was ready for a fight. The muscle ticking away at his jaw. She didn’t even need to glance his way to know exactly how devastated his face looked in this moment, a reflection of the gaping hole rapidly opening up in her chest. 

 

She kept looking at the light.

 

“I-” David started. 

 

“Try. It. Again.” 

 

Nothing. She felt nothing. Just that thunderous rushing in her ears, the burning of her eyes as they stared unblinkingly at the spot on the floor, a cold creeping numbness. Her mind was blank, completely clear, as David stiffly leaned forward. The smell of him was so different than her father’s familiar and modern combination of cologne and Old Spice deodorant. His scent of recently ridden horse and clean sweat filled her nose as he moved into her space, hovered uncertainly for a moment, and pressed his lips against her cheek.

 

Nothing. 

 

Emma closed her eyes, and felt one traitorous tear slip out, quickly rolling down the side of her nose as she pulled back, hitching her shoulder up to catch it and quickly wipe the evidence away. 

 

“I’m sorry,” David offered softly. It was so genuine, so very much her father, but he wasn’t her father here. That was clear now.

 

“It’s fine,” Emma said, surprised at how strong her voice was, how disconnected it felt. “It was a long shot any way.” 

 

“Please let me help some other way,” David beseeched. “I can provide you a room for the night, a place to rest, we can sneak you into the castle easily enough, and it will be much more comfortable than the woods.” 

 

“No need,” Killian said after a long pause, sounding for all the world like a man barely grasping the reins of his poorly maintained control. “Appreciate the thought, mate, but we don’t have time to rest.” 

 

“Charles-” Emma started, but he was already reaching into his satchel for the map. 

 

“Though some extra provisions, perhaps a cart or a carriage of some sort-” 

 

“Charles,” Emma said again, louder this time, her voice cracking a bit from the effort of keeping herself under control. “We’re taking the room.” 

 

Killian dropped the map down by his side, the worn parchment crinkling in his grip. 

 

“Swan, every moment we spend here is another moment we lose, we have to keep going,” he glanced at her father, and then back to her, treading that fine line between firm and pleading.  

 

“I may not be able to, but at least one us should get some sleep,” Emma did look at him now, “We can rest, regroup and figure something else out.”  

 

She let that hang in the air between them before she turned back to David,  _ Prince James _ , she corrected herself, it was easier to think of him like that.

 

“We’ll take the room.”

_____

 

Sneaking incognito into a palace where you were a wanted fugitive was infinitely easier when it was the betrothed of the resident Princess helping you do the sneaking. With David scouting ahead and providing tasks for any lingering servants or guards that would send them elsewhere, it was more of a stilted guided tour than a secret stealth mission. Despite their relative freedom of movement, Emma kept her hood up and her face out of sight as they made their way down the winding gold stoned corridors that made up the western wing. 

 

If anyone were to ask, she was merely one of the last remaining members of Prince Charles’s retinue. The nature of their relationship was left ambiguous, her role as mistress implied, and her skittishness and hooded anonymity easily explained by a harrowing ordeal, having been accosted with him by brigands on the road.

 

Under normal circumstances that particular cover story would have been met with half hearted protestations and red-faced denials, but she found herself unable to muster even a righteous indignation at being painted as the meek cowering damsel. She was too numb with exhaustion and grief to do more than keep her head down and despondently follow them across the shining marble floors to their destination. 

 

The private suite of rooms he lead them to were sparsely furnished but lavish by even Emma’s decidedly more modern standards. A plush canopied feather bed with olive colored and gold trimmed hangings took up most of the main room. A cold, unlit fireplace set in the wall completed the rest. 

 

The adjoining room was smaller, mostly consumed by a smallish golden tub, a looming armoire, and dark wooden vanity. Her eye flitted longingly over the tub and before she could even speak or fully form the thought Killian was turning to the Prince. 

 

“Is it possible to have some water brought up for a bath?” He was doing that thing where he deliberately didn’t look at her, the tips of his ears flushing again to match the twin spots of color rising on his cheeks. “For the lady. If we’re to stay we might as well take advantage of the situation, eh?” He rubbed the back of his head, still sounding a bit bitter about the decision to not keep moving, his voice edged in steel. “Separately, of course.”

 

“I was going to suggest it myself,” at their slightly offended looks David flushed. “Not implying that you  _ need  _ them or anything, just that you both might like them. You look dead on your feet.” He flushed deeper. “Not dead. Tired. You look tired.” 

 

“Thank you,” Emma said with soft sincerity. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

 

“None at all, I’ll send someone up, and then later with something to eat,” after confirming that this would be agreeable he gave them another sad, but troubled smile and shuffled out of the room. Emma stared at the floor, Killian clearing his throat next to her. 

  
  


Neither spoke at first, the silence oppressive and thick, and then it seemed like they were both speaking at once. 

 

“Swan. I really think you should reconsider-” 

 

“Don’t even start, Hook.”  

 

Killian gave her a frustrated look and Emma glared right back, jaw clenched. They both tried again. 

 

“If the Prince could provide us with a carriage-” 

 

“I said, we’re staying.” 

 

“Emma, please,” Killian ran an exasperated hand through his hair, and turned away from her momentarily to collect himself before continuing. “We don’t even know where your mother  _ is  _ at this point. With a two day lead she could be halfway across the bloody realm by now.” 

 

“My mother? What does she have to do with this?” Emma was confused for a moment before his intent dawned on her. Killian turned back around.

 

“You think I’m going to go through  _ that  _ again?” She asked him disbelievingly. “No thanks. It didn’t work. We’ll find another way. End of discussion.” 

 

With that Emma turned away, pretending to shift her attention instead to the room. Her fingertips trailed along the bedspread and traced the lines of gold threaded embroidery. Unfortunately their quarters didn’t provide her with a lot of options for exploration, but the alternative was focusing on the sharpness in her throat and the increasingly familiar burn of tears as she imagined her mother in that position instead. 

 

Her mother’s polite and confused stare, seeing right through her. The anticipation and detached disappointment when nothing happened. Her mother offering her assistance, empathizing with her pain, with the situation, but utterly divorced from it. Her mother staring right at her and not knowing who she was. Again, just like in the forest. No flare of recognition, no surprised joy to see her, just an awkward hug and uncomfortable smile. 

 

No. She couldn’t go through that again.  

 

Killian closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

 

“A compromise then. We can think of alternate plan on the road. We’ll see if David can provide us with a cart or a carriage or other means of conveyance and determine our destination from there.” 

 

Emma was silent, ignoring him as she moved into the adjoining room.  She avoided the glass of the mirror, not wanting to see a stranger staring back at her right now on top of everything else, and opened up the armoire instead. It was empty.

 

“I’m not a child Hook, or a member of your crew to be ordered around. I decided to stay and we’re staying.” 

 

“I know this is difficult Swan, for me as well, but we must explore every option at our disposal and we must do that as quickly as we can,” Killian tried again, his own frustration giving his words an underlying bite that grated on her nerves. 

 

“For you as well?” She bit out, incredulous. “For you as well?” 

 

“I merely meant-” Killian started but the she was past the point of really hearing what he was saying. 

 

“Oh what? You’re  _ sad  _ you’re not my true love or whatever magical crap dictates my life today? Yeah? Well get in line. Behind my own  _ father,”  _  Emma sneered, stalking back into the room and over to where he stood at the corner of the bed. 

 

He did look sad. He looked devastated actually, but not for himself. For her. She knew that without even looking at his face, could tell by the way his arm came up hesitantly, trying to gauge if she would allow that small act of comfort in her rage. 

 

The hesitation made her even angrier. 

 

“Do you think this is easy for me? That I just decided “Oh well, that didn’t work, guess I’ll just take a medieval bubble bath and stop trying? Stop trying to get back to my family. To my son? Do you have any idea how much it sucks that my own parents, _my_ _own_ _parents_ , apparently can’t break this stupid curse?” She was shaking but she couldn't seem to stop.

 

“I wanted to go back, I wanted to stop running, and look where that got me.” Emma could hear the tremble in her voice as well, barely holding onto it. 

 

Killian opened his mouth again but she was already speaking over him and he clamped it closed, expression pleading.

 

“If any of this has proved anything it’s that I was  _ right _ ,” Emma hissed out.

 

“I was right this whole time. The only love I have room for in my life is Henry, and he is 30 years in the future and an entire realm away,” she took in another trembling breath, feeling the anger ebbing at the mere thought of him, of what he might be doing right now, her optimistic and good hearted son. The little boy who had gotten her to believe. 

 

“He won’t have any idea what happened to me or why I left-” unexpectedly a sob tore from her mouth, and she clapped a surprised hand over it, as if to shove the outburst back inside and the rim of tears that had been threatening to spill over since the stable broke free, running unchecked down her cheeks as she quavered. 

 

“I don’t even know if I told him I loved him before we got sucked into that stupid portal. And my parents thought I was going to move away and leave them behind and I never got to fix it or tell them-” 

 

Killian didn’t wait this time, he lurched forward, gathering her into his arms, pressing her fiercely against his chest as she was wracked with sob after sob, unable to get it under control, unable to hold it back as much as she swallowed and  _ tried _ , gasping and panting to hold them at bay. He just clutched her to his chest, cheek pressed against her hair and let her cry. 

 

“They don’t know,” Emma said weakly through the tears. 

 

“Shh, love,” he said against her hair, rubbing her back through the thick layers of her cloak.“They know. I promise they know.” 

 

Emma tried to concentrate on breathing, that usually worked, pressing closer against the solid and familiar weight of him. He didn’t pull away, just kept rubbing her back in short even circles, and they rocked slightly, unintentionally, from the motion. Emma closed her eyes sinking into the movement. She took a breath in. She let a breath out. 

 

It was awhile before Killian spoke. 

 

“It’s not because of  _ you  _ that it didn’t work Swan,” Killian said gently, he drew back a bit, his hand sliding from her back to her arm. “You remember what happened when the timeline changed. As long as we remain here the future is still uncertain. Your father just doesn’t know who he is yet,” he reached up and brushed away a tear, just as he had done before, and smiled down at her. 

 

Emma nodded and swallowed, the sobs had gradually faded away to light hiccupping breaths, and breathing easier made her feel slightly more in control, slightly better. He pulled her back into his arms, face pressed against her hair once more and even after her breathing had returned to normal, even after the tears dried in tracks lightly cracking on her face, they stayed locked together, his hand trailing up and down her back again, with firm, reassuring sweeps. 

 

Unlike the brief, excited embrace fueled by theft-induced adrenaline from before, or the desperate clench of runaway emotions, this one was an all enveloping warmth, a physically tangible sense of comfort and peace that rolled over her in waves. The heat of his cheek pressed against the skin of her temple and the two of them swaying slightly in place. 

 

It was more of a slightly graceless entanglement of limbs than a romantic gesture, his arms boxing her in around the shoulders, hand resting softly and uncertainly between the blades of her shoulders as he stroked. It was the intent that made her chest flutter and her heart thud, not the execution. 

 

Emma squeezed her eyes closed to shove away the rush of anxiety that came too, the waves of guilt and sadness. She had been so angry, she had taken his feelings and just thrown them in his face. 

 

The last time they had been this close, pressed together from the top of her head to her feet between his own, she had thought her mother was being executed right in front of her eyes.That was before Zelena, before certain revelations had come to light, before all of this.

 

At the time she hadn't been able to appreciate the  _ solidness _ of his presence. 

 

Their current situation was unfortunately no less critical, worse now with the new wall of unspoken awkwardness between them, the sense of something broken and lost still clawing at her chest. Emma felt strangely calm standing there in this room, in a land she didn't know, in the middle of a busy bustling palace, people going on with their lives around them. For this brief moment in time she was no longer afraid, and if she closed her eyes and pushed everything into the back of her mind. Zelena, the bandits, the failed true love kisses, if she pushed it all away except for this moment she could even imagine that she felt a bit hopeful. 

  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian and Emma get some much needed rest, and formulate a plan for what to do next.

______

 

Killian carefully set the lantern down on a fairly clear patch of the packed dirt floor, hesitant to even bring a hint of heat into the abandoned stable, considering most of it appeared as if it could burst into flames at any moment. Sitting alone in the dark held no appeal for him however, and there was really nowhere else for him to hide out at this point. 

 

He may be a masochist at times, often inflicting a certain amount of this bittersweet torture upon himself, but even he had his limits. Sharing a set of rooms with Emma Swan while she was naked in a tub of steaming water, skin no doubt flushed a delicate rosey pink, just feet away from a perfectly serviceable bed, was not a torture he could endure. He had survived many things, vanquished many foes in his long life, but  _ that  _ was not a weakness he could overcome. 

 

Especially when she kept looking at him with eyes that seemed to want him to kiss her, especially when she finally seemed to be truly ready to accept him, to truly let him in at last. He chuckled darkly to himself at the thought and leaned back against the door of an old wooden stall, drawing his flask from his bag and let the bitter irony wash over him. Of all the times for him to prove himself to her.

 

He had left in a hurry, fairly running out of the room as the servants began the long procession of bringing in the bath water, a whispered set of instructions to one of the maids and a gentlemanly nod of his head to the lady in question all he could manage before his departure.

 

He took a healthy pull, feeling the sharp sweetness at the back of his throat, and closed his eyes, drawing in a deep meditative breath. 

 

The urge to give in to her, to give into himself, was overwhelming. Holding her in his arms, smelling her hair, watching her eyes land every so often on his lips, the flutter of her lashes, the press of her palm against his own, it was all going to eventually drive him to insanity. A woman like her, a woman like Emma, deserved her happy ending. She deserved a love that was true. A love that was untainted by the darkness he had allowed to feed and prey on him for so long. 

 

He knew that if he gave in, if he spat in the face of fate or destiny or the gods or whoever it was who determined the matching of souls, if he selfishly took her for himself, then he would be truly lost to it. He would be unable to let her go, unable to let her live the life she truly deserved. She could make her choice, but this was his. In this he would not be self serving. 

 

Emma, the product of True Love, the Savior, a hero, a light in that all consuming darkness, deserved so much more, more than him surely. Their current predicament was testament to that. 

 

He took another pull, slowly licked his lips and swallowed it down, already warming from the alcohol. He hadn’t eaten since their meal in the tavern, and it overtook him more easily perhaps, that familiar creeping numbness, the peaceful calm of a deliberately muddled awareness. He drank again.

  
  


“You alright there?” David asked from the door, almost startling him into dropping the flask, choking slightly on the fresh sip. Decades upon decades of mastering control of his expression, of his body, and centuries of drunken dice games and torturous interrogations allowed him to merely open one eye in feigned laziness, his expression suitably detached, almost bored. 

 

“Bloody fantastic,” he croaked out and cleared his throat. Trying his best to ignore the man, he took another pull, closing his eyes again. He put everything he had into appearing relaxed as he leaned against the door, but his skin prickled with the awareness of being stared down, and he could hear the Prince rustling and shifting closer. Killian braced himself for the questions to come.

 

“If you keep up that pace I don’t think you’ll make it back up to the castle. And I’m definitely not going to carry you,”  David was going for light, joking, but his voice was still laced with an undercurrent of sympathetic understanding that grated on Killian’s nerves.

 

“Appreciate the thought, but I think I can figure my way around,” he replied. He heard the slide of metal on leather as David drew his sword. 

 

He cracked his eye again at that, wary of the blade, and the other man’s intentions with it. The David he knew, the one decades away and a whole lifetime removed wouldn’t hurt him. That man he trusted, albeit after a long hard uphill slog, but this David, this Prince James wasn’t an entity he recognized. 

 

There was something decidedly crushing about looking at someone you cared for and seeing nothing of their regard for you in their eyes. He had learned that that on a doorstep in a strange sprawling city, hope still in his heart, and he realized it here in this stable now. 

 

This man looked like David Nolan, right down to the smallest mannerisms. He spoke like David Nolan and smiled with his entire face like David Nolan, but what the man in front of him was missing was David Nolan. The cursed memories and years of experience he had yet to live lent a subtle change in his personality that kept him separate from the man that Killian knew, the man that Killian had come to regard as almost a friend, at the very least a comrade in arms. This man before him smiled David Nolan’s smile, and gestured with his sword, but he was just an echo of the man he knew. 

  
  


“Well it certainly seems like you might know your way around that thing. What do you say to a little night time sparring? Take your mind off Le-...things,” he indicated Hook’s own sword on his hip. 

 

“That’s what the rums for, mate,” Killian took another drink for emphasis, and waggled the flask at him when he was done, the dullness growing deeper. 

 

“Oh come on, humor me,” David held his sword out in front of him again and grinned. “I could use the practice.”  

 

Sighing loudly, Killian pushed himself off the door. He tilted his head back, regarding the other man with tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, annoyed as he held the flask against his chest and re stoppered it. 

 

“I've no doubt that's true enough,” he muttered, but David just kept grinning, not taking the bait.

 

He shrugged out of his coat, still eyeing the Prince who just smiled cheekily across the room, his own lantern secured on a nail protruding from a wooden beam, casting the room in a warm orange glow. Killian carefully laid the coat across the stall, and went to work on his vest. 

 

“I warn you, Highness, I wasn’t trained by castle guards or masters at arms,” Killian shrugged jerkily out of the vest as well, laying it with the coat.

 

“Neither was I,” David admitted. “A princess in disguise and... a dragon.”

 

Killian raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t comment, he knew a thing or two about princesses in disguise and dragons, it seemed he might have more in common with this version of David Nolan than be thought. 

 

He drew his sword. 

 

“Alright,  _ Prince _ . Let’s have a go, shall we?”

  
  


_____

 

David sent up a panting laugh from the ground and held up a hand for Killian to help him to his feet. He couldn’t help but grin back in return, the Prince’s joviality infectious. He might still be a bit giddy as well, adrenaline coursing through his blood, muscles burning with exertion as the excitement of a good workout slowly ebbed away. David gave his forearm a hearty shake, and clapped him firmly on the back when he had steadied himself, still chuckling slightly as he wiped the sheen of perspiration from his forehead. 

 

Killian was no less drenched, glad he had opted to duel without a majority of his garments, his sweat damp shirt clinging uncomfortably to his back and chest. This David may still be a novice, his technique nonexistent and sloppy in these early days of his training, but he fought with everything he had, matching Killian enthusiastically blow for blow. The battle had not been easily won, especially after half a flask of rum and sans hook. He had tenacity though, a trait that Killian greatly appreciated and admired, a trait that was comfortingly familiar. He smiled to himself as he reached into the satchel and withdrew not the flask this time but a skin of water. He held it out to David first.

 

He nodded his head in thanks, opening it for the two of them and taking a few long restorative gulps, still panting as he handed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

 

“You fight well,” he smiled wider as Killian took the skin, the pair of them leaning across the wooden door of another stall. 

 

“I’ve many years of practice,” KIllian said and took a generous gulp, the water still cool despite its lengthy journey. He closed his eyes relishing it for a moment, his breathing slowly returning to normal. 

 

“And quite a bit of frustration I bet,” David said coyly. Killian paused with the skin halfway to his mouth and glared at the man, annoyed.

 

“What’s the point of “taking my mind off things” if you were just going to bloody bring it up anyway?” He took another agitated sip. 

 

“Figured I had to butter you up first, only way to get you to talk about it,” David grinned and pushed himself up off the wooden stall. He reached into the discarded bag, taking out the flask. 

 

Killian watched exasperated, ire rising as the man unstoppered it and took a swig, gratified slightly when he coughed, sputtering from the rum’s unfamiliar harshness. “Ugh,” David looked at it in disgust before handing it back. “Something tells me you haven’t talked to Leia about it at any rate.”

 

They took a few more hearty pulls and passed the glass bottle back and forth, the silence stretched out between them, not uncomfortable but present. His head was swimming from the rush of the fight and now the slightly substantial quantity of liquor in a relatively short period of time. He opened his mouth without thinking, the words spilling out. 

 

“I’m not sure where to go from here.” 

 

The confession didn’t have quite the unburdening effect he had hoped. Out in the world now, spoken aloud, it seemed to only make it more real. It was a rare day indeed when Killian didn’t have a course set, a horizon to head towards, but with Emma refusing to even entertain the idea of seeking out her mother and no other options left in this land, in this time, he was unsure where to even begin.

 

He wordlessly held out the flask to a still silent Prince, who took a smaller more measured sip this time, his face thoughtful. 

 

“Well you said a sorceress cast the curse, right?” David handed it back. “Maybe another sorceress can help uncast it.” 

 

Killian raised an eyebrow at him. 

 

“Don’t know how many sorceresses you’ve dealt with in your time mate, but I can assure you they aren’t generally the helping sort.”  

 

Davis shrugged, waving off the flask this time, opting for the skin of water instead.

 

“Well whatever you decide to do, I’m sure Leia appreciates that you’ve stuck by her side,” David said sincerely after another moment of quiet. “I take it you haven’t told her how you feel?” The man’s sympathy was palpable, a sideways smile of concern, but there was no pity there and for that Killian was grateful at least.

 

He took one final pull on the flask before he restoppered it, knowing when he’d had enough. He had decades of practice recognizing the signs, the lantern light too bright, the familiar buzz at the back of his brain. He needed to stay as sharp as possible for Emma, but he also needed to dull the thorny stabs of his frustration, of his anxiety, of his anger, of his broken heart.  

 

He laughed sardonically. 

 

“Oh trust me, she knows. It seems that  _ destiny  _ has other plans for her,” Killian gave a brief flashing smile before he shoved the flask back into his satchel. 

 

“And destiny’s plans for you?” David asked, following suit with the skin of water. 

 

“Well those haven’t changed. I’m right where I’m supposed to be, I reckon.” 

 

Killian began the work of reassembling himself, clumsily shrugging on his vest, the alcohol and the overexerted weariness of his limbs making his movements more difficult. He wasn’t drunk, but it was a near thing. He left the vest unbuttoned, fitting his arms into the quilted coat. 

 

“Well then she must be too,” David said after a moment. He clapped Killian on the back again, knocking him forward a bit, and smiled reassuringly. “Fate’s a funny thing.” 

 

“Hilarious,” Killian said dryly, shouldering his satchel. David just continued to smile knowingly, lifting his lantern and opening the stable door, motioning for Killian to follow him into the night. 

 

_____

 

The water could be described as tepid at best, some spots searing hot while others barely brushed lukewarm as she lowered herself into the cramped golden tub. It smelled of metal and sulfur, but even then, as the water soothed the aches in her limbs and days of dirt and grime were swiftly dispatched by the thick rough cake of soap, it was the best bath she had ever had. 

 

It would have been made all the better if she could have given in to the temptation to close her eyes, to doze for just a few moments and linger in that dreamy humidity-laden half sleep that came from long lazy soaks. But as her limbs relaxed, the pain ebbed away when she languidly moved her legs back and forth through the warm water. Yet, her mind still buzzed with activity, that hyper alertness that came with a third or fourth wind, everything just this side of too sharp and too bright. 

  
  


In addition to cauldron after cauldron of water for the tub, and an ornate golden tray of simple toiletries, the scurrying and efficient servants had also brought a clean set of clothes, a bundle of leather and cloth awaiting her on the bed when the water had cooled beyond the point of tolerance. She smiled to herself as she held them up, no doubt in her mind that the selection was mostly Killian’s doing: a set of soft almost suede-like pants, a billowy linen shirt, a leather tunic, and a pair of well worn, but very close to size boots that were much sturdier and thicker than her current pair of torturous slippers. 

 

He had obviously taken her moaning on the road to heart and his selections were definitely a substantial improvement, both in mobility and comfort, one she was beyond thankful for. The bath and clean clothes made her feel brand new again, the heaviness lifting slightly as she felt the fresh cloth against her scrubbed raw skin, her scalp clean and the sticky sweaty feeling of days of travel left behind in the water of the bath.

 

She dressed quickly, save for the boots, worried that he would return from wherever he was to find her standing half naked in the middle of the room, a dreamy smile on her face, hair still dripping water down her back. It was not a wholly unappealing image as she imagined the heat in his eyes and the red in his cheeks when he came into the room they would be sharing, his initial shock and surprise morphing into that signature slow blinking appraisal of her form, hooded bedroom eyes and that smirking sneer.

 

She flushed at the thought, and instead grabbed a brush off the tray. This was not some high school co-ed sleepover fantasy come to life, she scolded herself as she roughly pulled it through her hair. She had much more pressing matters to think about than fantasies regarding roguish pirate captains and single beds she couldn't even actually sleep in.

 

But once the idea had taken shape it was difficult to think of little else. 

  
  


It was another hour or so before he returned. Creeping tendrils of worry had her leaping anxiously to her feet from her seat on the bed, an admonishment on her tongue, but he was spared her yelling by the small serving girl trailing in behind him bearing a heaping tray of food and a fully lit golden candelabrum. Emma ducked her head away as the girl busied herself with the tray. It was the same dance as before when they had brought the water, casually keeping her face hidden from view lest a particularly observant member of the staff recognize her, playing the subservient mistress of a Prince, waiting with impatient agitation until they took their leave.

 

When the girl was gone, the room a bit brighter with the additional light, Emma turned back. 

 

His expression was easy, open, more relaxed now, and his soaking wet hair fell so endearingly across his forehead most of her annoyance melted away at the sight. He looked softer without all the pirate leather and the princely trappings: a simple linen shirt and a similar pair of soft suede pants indicated that he too had found some cleaner clothes in his time away, and a bath as well by the looks of it. He appeared outwardly as exhausted as she felt, his movements sluggish as he moved about the room. 

 

He also appeared by all accounts to be slightly drunk. 

 

He was just flirting with the edge of inebriation, every gesture still sure and confident, but with movements that were more careful and deliberate than she was used to seeing, exactly like a man who was trying to appear completely sober but wasn't. Emma was very familiar with that particular tactic.

 

“What happened to you?” she smirked, crossing her arms over her chest, as he neatly and slowly put the items away in the armoire, swaying slightly as he closed the door. 

 

“Just a little skirmish with your father. He was kind enough to offer a change of clothes and the use of his facilities afterwards,” the indulgent smirk fell from Emma’s face but KIllian smiled reassuringly at her horrified expression.  

 

“What? Is everything-” He waved her off. 

 

“Relax, Swan, twas just a friendly sparring session between lads,” he sat on the bed, and she grinned again as he tested his balance before reaching down towards his feet.

 

“Oh yeah? Who won?”’she licked her lips in amusement, already anticipating his slightly affronted look and he didn’t disappoint, glaring up at her incredulously as he removed the first boot.

  
  


She watched fascinated as he wiggled his toes in woolen black socks, rubbing his foot through the fabric before moving to the other side.

 

“Considering the ridiculousness of that question, let’s pretend you didn’t ask it, shall we?”

 

Emma blinked, not hearing him as she tried to remember a time she had ever seen him in such a state of undress, a time when he was so stripped down, so vulnerable. His coat and vest were safely in the confines of the wardrobe, and even that was shocking. The borrowed white linen shirt gaped in the front, revealing more than his usual swath of chest, no hook either, just the black leather of his brace under the billowing sleeves and the wooden hand. Even his jewelry was gone. He was brighter and softer than she had ever seen him and it made her breath catch in her throat.

 

“Like what you see, milady?” she jerked her eyes away from the slightly tanned ridge of his collarbone back to his face which regarded her with a knowing smile and a raised eyebrow. 

 

“I’m just glad he sent up dinner,” Emma said with forced casualness, and turned back to the tray the girl had left on the mantle, feeling heat on the apples of her cheeks. She compelled herself to concentrate on the food instead. It was a simple affair of fruits and cheeses, a few bits of what appeared to be smoked meat, and tried to focus on something other than the hollow where his neck met his shoulder.  She looked around the room at the lack of table or chairs with a frown.

  
As if reading her mind Killian padded across the room and picked up the tray, balancing it on his arm as he made his way back to the bed, putting it in the center of the large coverlet with an exaggerated flourish. He then went over to her discarded satchel and pulled out one of the water skins, shaking it at her briefly before setting it on the bed next to the tray. A bedroom picnic.

 

“It’s no booth at Granny’s but I think it’ll do, eh?” he looked over at her brightly. 

 

Emma hesitated, the lone bed had been an abstract concept up until this moment, one of the many things she was pushing to the back of her mind,  barely flirting with the idea of it. Now that they were actually utilizing the thing, now that they were actually alone, it was suddenly very, very real, even if it was acting as nothing more than a stand in for a table at present.

 

He clambered onto it, all boyish alcohol fueled cheerfulness, still a bit unsteady from however much he’d had to drink, and leaned back against the stack of cloth covered pillows. He reached over, patting what would apparently be her side with his wooden hand. “Climb aboard, Swan.” 

 

“Is that your usual line to get women into your bed, Hook?” Emma resisted the urge to bury her blazing face in the pillow as the words slipped from her mouth. She refused to look at him as she hoisted herself onto the mattress and tentatively settled in, choosing to reach over to the tray for a grape to fill it instead.

“I find I use that one more once they’re already in it,” he returned easily and she almost choked on the fruit, coughing as she tried to regain her breath. He just smirked at her as he popped his own grape into his mouth.

 

It was several minutes before Emma felt safe enough to speak, afraid that her voice would come out a hoarse and stammering jumble of words. A thousand imagined scenarios flicked through her head as he stretched out like a cat on the bed next to her, turned to his side and propped up on his forearm. 

 

“So were you two actually “sparring” or just having a drink?” Emma asked after a moment of picking through the tray.

 

“Well I had intended to drink alone,” Killian admitted. “And your father convinced me to do something a bit more constructive.” 

 

“And  _ then  _ you had a drink,” Emma nodded at him knowingly. 

 

“Aye, and then we had a drink, his suggestion, mind, although I admit I was already more than a bit on my way when the Prince came upon me,” he popped another grape into his mouth.

 

“Well whatever you guys did I’m happy to see you’re in a better mood. You were kinda bringing me down,” Emma said lightly, cautiously, testing the waters. 

 

Her earlier breakdown wasn’t something they’d been able to discuss,  wasn’t something they were ever  _ likely _ to discuss, and it was still a bit awkward to think about how she had basically fallen to pieces in his arms, his quiet comfort so unrestrainedly given, impeded only by the knock of the castle’s servants on the door bearing her water. 

 

It had been a long time since Emma had been so emotional, a long time since she had allowed herself a measure of physical comfort to go with those emotions. 

 

He smiled almost shyly at her, hearing the meaning behind her words. 

 

“Aye Swan, I find my mood much improved,” Killian’s expression turned serious as he looked at her across the bed,  “That doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about not wishing to tarry here any longer than absolutely necessary, however.” He warned. 

 

Emma ignored him, not wanting to revisit that argument again. She rubbed her legs against the coverlet instead and let out a groan of satisfaction that was half involuntary and half intended distraction. It worked, if the silence from his side was any indication, but she was too shy to look at him to check, busying herself with enjoying the sensation of being off her feet, her legs and heels still thrumming slightly. 

 

“I didn’t realize how painful walking could be,” Emma said finally after a few more blissful minutes of just relaxing on the plush, feather filled, mattress. 

 

“I would have never known, you’ve suffered in such noble silence until now,” Killian returned cheekily. Emma opened her eyes and glared at him indignantly across the space, and then picked up what appeared to be a walnut, throwing it at him. 

 

“Shut up. And stop stealing all the grapes,” she made to bat his hand away but his fingers were much too nimble, snatching one of the last remaining globes of fruit from her side of the tray before she could blink.

 

“Pirate,” Killian reminded her, rather predictably. “Just be glad we’re eating indoors lass, had I my way we’d be eating on the road right now.” 

 

Emma huffed at him, frustration rising at his complete and utter inability to just let a subject drop. She also didn’t want to argue, not when things were so pleasant, not when she was so exhausted, her brain so muddled she wasn’t sure if she could win. She changed the subject instead. 

 

“You know, there was a time when I would have given anything to go camping. Eat outdoors under the stars, fire pits, making s'mores, the whole thing,” she confessed. “When I was a kid I was going to go but-” Emma wanted to bite her lip, it appeared she would just be trading one set of awkward feelings or another, more unwanted emotions she couldn’t seem to rein in when her head was so clouded.  “If I had known how miserable it was I wouldn’t have wanted it so badly.”  

  
  


“Well camping in your realm means something altogether different from I gather. Something like what Robin and his men get up too,”  KIllian reasoned.

 

“What we’re doing is just surviving, not quite the same thing love.” He smiled at her. “When we get back perhaps you could take the lad? Light a fire, gaze at the stars, make “s'mores”. I wager he’d enjoy that a great deal.” He faltered slightly on the “s’mores”, the word unfamiliar on his tongue, unsure of the context, and Emma bit her lip to keep from laughing. 

 

“You could come too. Tell us what all the constellations are,” Emma said before she could stop herself, the picture forming clearly in her head, the pang of homesickness and  _ want  _ that was becoming so familiar back again, stronger now. She could just see him, tentatively trying the concoction of melted chocolate and sticky marshmallow, never backing down from a challenge but still wary of the mysteries of the new land he’d found himself in. Henry’s eager excited face as he looked on.  

 

There was a beat where he didn't seem to move, his hand poised just above the tray, his face strangely pained before he cleared his throat awkwardly. 

 

“Aye, that I could.” He thought a moment. “Are you going to explain to me what making a “s’more” consists of beforehand?”

 

Emma smiled to herself and used his momentary distraction to swipe the last bit of tangy cheese right from beneath his fingers, glancing at him in victory. His eyes twinkled in the candlelight as he mimicked her earlier affronted look.  

 

“I think I’ll save that as a surprise,” she said around the mouthful.  

 

“Figured you would,” he heaved himself back to standing, and after acknowledging that she had eaten her fill set to work tidying up their little impromptu picnic.  

 

“Now what shall we do, love?” He looked over his shoulder at her and cast a playfully sultry look over it, all ridiculous drama without his usual heat. Emma rolled her eyes, the zing of attraction pulling in her stomach regardless. She pushed it aside.

 

“Now, at least one of us should get some sleep I think,” she gave him a pointed look. At that he sobered a bit. 

 

“Aye, I suppose I shall since you aren’t giving me a bloody choice,” he grumbled and jerkily twisted his hand out of the brace. 

 

“So are you just going to watch me whilst I slumber, Swan?”

 

“Watch you while you snore and drool is probably more accurate,” Emma leapt off the bed and padded over to his satchel, pulling out the storybook and holding it up. He still looked a bit huffy at the suggestion, but said nothing, merely climbed back in under the coverlet after a brief inspection, for bugs or something else she wasn’t sure, but he seemed satisfied enough. 

 

It was a weird experience indeed watching Captain Hook, a man she had witnessed firsthand do brutal and vicious things, a man whose very name carried with it the weight of centuries of vengeance and death, climb into an overlarge bed in his hand knit socks, hair still damp from the bath. Her heart clenched and she clutched the book closer as she climbed in beside him. 

 

The bed was large, and there was plenty of room between them but Emma felt like she could feel the heat of his legs under the blanket, even as she lay on top of it, feel every movement as he arranged himself on his designated side. She swallowed and focused instead on the storybook, propping herself up on the pillows so she could read for a few hours while he slept. Despite her jokes, just watching him sleep  _ was _ slightly creepy and weird, but the castle wasn’t safe for her to wander around either, the threat of recognition too great.  

 

“A few hours lass, nothing more,” he warned her as he shifted about. “I’m only doing this because you requested it. I still feel like we should carry on.” 

 

“I know,” Emma said softly. She turned her head to look down at him, still amazed at how surreal this experience was, the complete absurdity of their situation paired with the fog of her brain made everything seem a bit like a dream, made her question reality a bit more. “Thank you.” 

 

He was still propped up by the pillow slightly, just barely easing into the bed, still tense and unsure, but her sincere appreciation for his efforts, for going against his very nature, seemed to soften him even further. He moved down slightly, relaxed a bit more and turned on his side away from her. 

 

There was still a lot more shuffling to be had, a lot of huffy tossing and turning on his part. Emma’s twitching limbs, that pins and needles sensation of needing to move, made her shift her legs against the bed even more than usual. She still felt his tension, his breathing stubbornly refusing to slow next to her, but she ignored him, knowing that he was just as exhausted as she, and that it wouldn’t be long before he just couldn’t do it anymore. She was almost at that point herself after all, she knew the feeling. 

 

“True love’s kiss,” Killian said suddenly after a long stretch of quiet silence, turning abruptly to face her. 

 

“What?” Emma started, looking down at him bewildered, her heart stuttering. “What about it?” Against her will her eyes flickered down to his lips.

 

“They say it can break any curse,” Killian said. 

 

Emma rolled her eyes. 

 

“Yeah, repeatedly. It feels like they never  _ stop  _ saying it.” 

 

Killian ignored her, turning on his back to look up at the flickering light of the candles on the ceiling. 

 

“But we forget that other things can break them as well. Everyone is so focused on bloody true love’s kiss they forget that curses have other means of destruction,” Killian sat up fully now, voice edged in frustration. “We just need to find out what breaks yours and I reckon it’ll be a sight easier than traveling through time again, or finding a magic bean that won’t have dire consequences later,” he muttered. He didn’t seem to be speaking directly to her, more to himself, reasoning something out aloud more than wanting her input.

 

“Were you planning on traveling through time?” Emma asked bewildered. 

 

“I’ll do whatever we have to do,” he said distractedly, waving her off. “But what if it’s easier than that? What if someone else knows the solution?”

 

“What are you talking about, who knows the solution?” 

 

“Just thinking about something your father said. About seeking out another sorceress,” Killian looked at her, his face so intense, eyes so blue and so wide Emma pulled back a bit to take it in fully. “I think I have just the sorceress in mind.” 

 

“What? Who?” Emma thought about all the sorceresses they knew, Cora, Zelena, Regina, none of them particularly appealing or friendly. She shuddered at the thought of seeking Cora out, no doubt the evil hag was around somewhere, wreaking havoc and destroying lives. 

While the witch would eventually have a soft spot in the place where her heart should be for the handsome pirate captain who would so willingly be her minion, Emma very much doubted her kindness extended to helping the woman who would later break her daughter’s curse and whose mother would ultimately kill her in cold blood. 

 

“Maleficent.” 

 

At her expression he held up a hand to silence her, talking over the beginnings of her protest. “She knows more about sleeping curses than any witch in the realm, and I have to imagine that wakefulness curses can’t be too far afield.” 

 

“But she’ll try to kill us. Last time I met her she tried to barbeque me,” Emma said incredulously. “And what about the stupid timeline? Isn’t the idea to encounter as few people we know as possible?” 

 

Killian shook his head, almost bouncing with excitement across the bed from her his knees drawn up under the blanket.

 

“I know how to handle Maleficent, I’ve...experience in the matter let’s say,” Emma frowned and raised an eyebrow at that, but he continued on, unphased. “And the timeline won’t matter, even if she does see through The Dark One’s spell the next time she meets you she won’t exactly be in a position to comment on your previous acquaintance, love.” He reminded her. 

 

Emma frowned. 

 

“I don't know. What if she won't help us?” Emma asked.

 

“Then she might be in possession of something that could, a book or a potion or a magical object that can help. At the very least we have a heading to point towards.”

 

Emma sighed, but unable to come up with an alternate solution was forced to nod in concession. 

 

"Alright then,  that's settled, I'll wake the Prince and we can set out immediately." Killian threw off the blanket, swinging his legs around to bound from the bed.   
  
"Whoa there cowboy, you still need to sleep,” Emma reached out, grabbing his hand and tugging him back. He glanced down at where they were joined and  swallowed, visibly calming slightly, but still rather annoyed that she’d stopped him.

 

“Still firm on that then?” He asked exasperated and Emma nodded, tugging on his hand again to coax him back into the bed. 

 

“Still firm on that. Especially if we’re going to face some evil dragon witch. At least one of us needs to be on their toes,” she reminded him. 

 

Killian sighed but nodded, curling his fingers around hers and giving them a momentary squeeze before he reluctantly turned back around.

 

Emma patted the mattress next to her

 

“Aye Swan,” he sighed in defeat. “I'll admit that is the wiser strategy.”

 

“Damn straight,” Emma picked the book back up, settling back against the pillows. “Now, go to sleep.” 

 

He did as he was bid, if not a bit grumpily, settling back into the bed, turning onto his side once again. 

 

“Goodnight Emma,” he murmured after a moment, voice already thick with sleep. Emma smiled down at her book.

 

“Goodnight.”

  
  


It turned out that Killian neither drooled nor snored, his breathing rhythmic and sure, but so quiet despite the stillness of the room she leaned over him more than once to make sure he was still doing it. Even though she had been resolved to focus on the storybook, to leave him be, Emma found her eyes wandering to the man next to her more than once throughout the night. 

 

He breathed like the sea, she mused, like ocean waves drawing away from shore and coming back, steady and true. While she had a tendency to sprawl, reveling in whatever space she could call her own, Killian seemed to take up as little space as possible. He barely moved throughout the night, laying partially on his side, partially on his back, so she could just make out the line of his nose, the brush of long lashes against his cheek, but even though he fidgeted during his waking hours, barely able to keep still, fingers drumming, mouth working almost constantly, in sleep he was completely frozen, unmoving, and tense. 

 

It was hours before the rhythm was broken, his deep steady breaths turning into quick frenzied gasps. A thunderstorm of panicked hiccuping pants, the line of his body rigid and taut next to her own. It made her heart pound with the amount of fear conveyed with so little a noise, the terror expressed in a single breath. 

 

Emma bit her lip, unsure of how to proceed. 

 

There was a time where she would have awoken him immediately, her concern making her movements rough and abrupt, snapping at him in the muted candlelight that he was having a bad dream, to wake up already. But there was some sleep deprived part of her mind, giddy and slightly hysterical that had her reaching out instead, quietly resting her hand on his back. The muscles were tense under the splay of her fingers, his skin warm even through the fabric of his shirt, but he didn’t wake immediately, and that made her a bit bolder. 

 

“Shhh,” Emma, whispered into the dark, and scooted tentatively closer, moving her hand down the line of his spine and back up again. “Shh.” She murmured again, letting out a shaky breath. 

 

She could tell by the change in his breathing, by the flutter of his lashes, that he was awake, but he didn’t pull away, he didn’t flush with embarrassment or ask why she was practically pressed along his back, the tops of her thighs almost flush with the back of his own. He just leaned back, looking at her over his shoulder, slightly confused, but his smile soft and sleepy, like he expected her to be there, like there was no where else she would possibly be. 

 

“Are you alright, love?” he asked drowsily and turned back, leaning into the press of her hand still frozen against his back, asleep again before she could answer. Emma swallowed, settling down to rest her cheek against the pillow, eyes tracing the lines of his barely visible profile in the rapidly fading light, and whispered into the darkness.

 

“I’m alright.”

 

______

 

Even when one didn’t necessarily awake from sleep the sun was still far too bright in the morning, Emma noted with some disdain. She rubbed her eyes, dry and burning in the early light, and leaned heavily against the rough hewn post of the corral fence. She had never been a morning person, anything before 8 was too early for her liking, and it didn’t seem to matter whether she was rested or not, whether she had actually slept or not, that continued to be true. 

 

Killian, however, had risen before the sun, his internal alarm going off well before anyone else in the palace had even thought about stirring, and bounded out of bed to immediately begin preparations. He had fulfilled her wishes, had rested just as she’d requested, and now it was time for action. He had no doubt forced half the palace out of their own beds to assist him, since he had flat out refused to let  _ her  _ help. He left the room dressed and ready to go, his hair an uncombed riotous mess on his head, both of their satchels banded about his chest. He gave firm instructions before he went that she was to rest, “break her fast” and meet him at the stables in a few hours time so they could begin the journey. He would manage everything else.

 

She had grumbled over his coddling, she wasn’t a baby after all, but her legs ached and her head was pounding a dull pulsing rhythm of pain with each beat of her heart and every slight moment she made, so she wasn’t really in a condition to put up too much of a fight. She just waved him away with a lazy toss of her hand and frowned down at the book in front of her, the words a blurred mess on the page, her eyes crossing the harder she tried to force them to make sense again. 

 

With the book no longer an option to help her pass the time she had briefly considered donning her cloak, covering her face to explore the castle in full, but she had just sighed instead, turning over in the bed, empty, lonely, and still smelling him, unable to summon up the motivation to even sit up to pull on her boots, much less traverse the sprawling palace with no firm destination in mind. 

 

So Emma spent the rest of the morning watching the small window brighten with the passing hours, watching the smallest sliver of sunrise, the sky going from a pitch black to smoky navy to the brilliant yellow blue of early morning, and listened to the increasing activity in the halls of the keep. Each moment that passed was another worry, another fear, another anxiety, so loud in the quiet room she couldn't push them away completely, and it was the loud buzzing of her mind that forced her from the bed with a frustrated shriek and angrily kicking legs more than any real desire to leave it.

 

Getting down to the stables had been as much of a chore as she’d imagined wandering castle would be, every action irritating and slow as she gathered her cloak and tucked Henry’s ridiculously heavy book under her arm, tugged on her boots with leaden arms and grunts of exertion. If someone had offered to carry her to her destination Emma wasn’t quite so sure she would refuse, an aggravated whine feeling like it was constantly at the back of her throat, the urge to lean against the walls and rest every so often as strong as her desire to sleep.

  
  


She made it though, perhaps taking a bit less care to hide her face than normal as she did, perhaps being a bit less polite to passersby than she normally would, but she made it. She propped the book on the ground next to her feet, and leaned one arm along the fence to rest her head and close her eyes against the glare, fruitlessly hoping that maybe having them shut against the light would trick her brain into thinking she’d had some rest. She could hear the noise of the morning: the yells and shouts of people in the courtyard, shrieking children and grumbling stablehands. A busy day was already well underway for the servants and residents of the castle, the animals they tended adding their moos and brays to the din. She groaned into the flesh of her arm, squeezing her eyes closed to block out at least a bit of the sensory overload. 

 

“Why couldn't she have used a sleeping curse instead?” Emma moaned into her arm.

 

“Swan?” Hook’s voice broke in, gentle and concerned, making her jump.  “Are you alright?”

 

Emma opened one eye to glare at him for asking such a stupid question, followed quickly by a jolt of embarrassment, wondering if he remembered the last time he had asked her that, adorably sleep-rumpled and checking on  _ her,  _ but she was brought up short on examining either by the extremely large animal next to him. Emma lifted her head fully to look at him in confusion. 

 

He followed her questioning gaze and smiled fondly over at the beast, a large rugged draft horse, taller than her by quite a bit. It was broad, with thick, heavily muscled legs, large intelligent brown eyes, and small pointed ears that flanked a long strip of brilliant white, the only interruption to the inky black coat. Killian ran his hand along the creature’s neck, the smile never leaving his face as he tentatively lead the animal a bit closer. 

  
  


“What the hell is that?” The question came out a bit harsher than she intended, her internal agitation breaking through. 

 

“A horse. To pull the cart the Prince helped secure as a means of transportation.” 

 

“How did he do that?” Emma asked bewildered, looking between the man grinning in front of her and the massive creature he was currently petting. 

 

“I’d wager by being a Prince,” Killian said cheerfully. He motioned for her to come closer, Emma pushed away from the fence with some effort, cautiously moving towards it. She hadn’t a lot of experience with animals, a few petting zoos  and class field trips to working farms the sum of her experience, unless you count a memory of Henry as a toddler sitting proudly on the back of a docile dressed up pony. It was a memory that may belong to Regina but felt like her own, his excited bounce in the saddle as he refused to hold still for the camera, a gap toothed grin and a red bandana around his neck. Emma blinked and focused on the horse.  

 

“Swan, meet Four,” he motioned with his wooden hand between the two of them. “Four, Swan.” 

 

“Four? Why’s its name Four?”

 

“Well there were five of them in the stable, I assume there was a system in place,” he ran a hand down the mare’s neck again. “If you have an alternate suggestion she seems a smart lass, I’m sure she’ll be open to it.” 

 

Emma shook her head, still a bit wary but stepped forward nonetheless to reach out, the animal’s fur soft and velvety beneath her fingers.

“He gave you a horse and a cart?” Emma asked to confirm she had heard him correctly.

 

“Aye, I was just taking her to get her ready to set sail. I reckon riding in a cart will be a bit easier on you than walking,” Emma went to protest, bristling at the idea that she couldn’t even walk on her own, ignoring the fact that just a few minutes ago she had been quite willing to accept any and all offers to be carried where she wanted to go. 

 

Killian was ready though, anticipating her reaction. 

 

“We need to conserve your energy love. The less you exert yourself the better, that will buy us some time. Maleficent's fortress isn’t far, but I’d rather you save your strength.” 

 

Emma paused but nodded, still absently stroking the horse, knowing he was right but aggravated all the same. It was hard to feel weak, hard to feel vulnerable and out of control, but she was quickly realizing there was little she could do. The curse was happening whether she liked it or not. Killian shifted nervously next to her, bolstering himself to say something. She could tell by the subtle shifts of his legs next to her. By the distracted way he picked up the book, tucking it into his bag without looking at her. He was ridiculously easy to read. She flicked her gaze over to catch him rubbing the back of his neck. Emma raised an eyebrow.

 

“Your father is still in the stable if you’d like to say goodbye?” Killian’s expression was purposefully neutral, still looking at the horse instead of her, shuffling his feet in the dirt. Emma’s eyebrow dropped and she focused her attention to the horse who had turned its head towards her, seeking out the firm rhythmic strokes she had ceased.

 

“I don’t think he needs a goodbye from me,” Emma said. “He doesn’t even know who I am. I mean, I appreciate the room and the horse and all.” Emma trailed off. 

 

“Doesn’t mean  _ he _ wouldn’t appreciate the thought,” Killian said. He paused for a moment, before he continued. “And it’s not him that needs the goodbye, love.” 

 

“What does that even mean?” Emma huffed exasperated, agitated without knowing why, but Killian was already leading the horse past her, sending her a pointed look and tossing his head in the direction of the stable as he walked away.

  
  


Emma turned to look at the building, a newer, cleaner version of the rundown structure they had entered the palace through, anxiety clawing at her chest. On the list of things she didn't want to do this was near the top, falling a few notches below “Die a horribly torturous death”. 

 

She took a deep breath and started forward. It was rude not to at least thank the guy, she reasoned, he may not be the man she knew, but he had still given them room and board, clean clothing and transportation. She was pretty sure horses and carriages for them to pull didn’t come cheap, Prince or no. 

  
  
  


He was an illustration from Henry’s storybook come to life, leaning over one of the stalls whispering softly at a beautiful brown mare, stroking the nose of the horse with a gentle smile she had seen more than once. Emma swallowed, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears, taking another deep breath before she started towards him, plastering a fake winning expression of her own onto her face that, in her state, was probably more grimace than genuine smile. 

 

“Hey, uh, we’re about to head out so I just wanted to, you know, say thank you and all that,” she blurted out, wincing slightly at her lack of finesse. David turned the smile to her, already waving off the gratitude as he gave the animal one final pat, and transferred his full attention to Emma, stepping closer. 

 

“I know I kind of accidentally stole your mother’s ring and I just,” Emma paused to swallow. “I just really appreciate all you did for us. From before and with the...thing and...now.” 

 

“It was nothing,” David said sincerely. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t do more.” 

 

“Yeah well, not much you could do,” Emma rocked back on her heels, much preferring to keep her attention on the horse instead of him, feeling awkward and too exposed under his familiar gaze.

 

“So where will you go now? Charles didn’t say,” David leaned against the post, crossing his arms across his chest. He seemed unsure of himself for a moment, a bit nervous even. Emma looked from the horse back at him curiously. “Going to see if you can find Snow next? Maybe she can break your curse?” His forced casualness with the question was both adorable and ridiculous, and Emma bit her lip. 

 

“Why, do you wanna come with us?” Emma teased lightly, the flush that rose immediately on his cheeks made her smile even more. It warmed her heart more than she could possibly say watching the beginnings of what she knew would be one of the greatest love stories of all time That it was two people she would come to dearly love, two people who would love her, made it all the better. 

 

“No I was just...curious,” David said finally, struggling to find the word. “I just remembered you said it was someone you’d spent time with the past few days and we all spent time, together, with Snow. Together.” He flushed a bit more, unable to help the nervous smile, the crinkling at the corners of his eyes.  

 

“It’s okay,” Emma walked over, a bit more comfortable now in the face of his obvious crush on her mother, which was strange to think about, and leaned on the wall next to him. “I saw the way you two looked at each other.” David looked up sharply, casting a furtive glance around. 

 

“Sorry,” Emma whispered, realizing that discussing his interest in another woman in the stables of the palace of his betrothed probably wasn’t the best idea. David waved it off, still a bit red in the face. 

 

“So are you gonna call her?” Emma asked, a bit softer now. David looked at her confused. 

 

‘Call?”

 

“Um..bird..message her?” She wasn’t sure if that’s necessarily how it worked, or if there were other means of long distance communication she wasn’t aware of. 

 

David shook his head. 

 

“I uh, I don’t think that would be wise,” he motioned around him. “My place is here. I have a duty to uphold, a destiny.”

 

Emma bit her lip, trying not to blurt out further, her muddled brain making her a bit more likely to spill things she shouldn’t, say, things that were better left unsaid. It was hard to figure out what might be too much, or too little, what might affect the future and what might nudge it in the direction it was supposed to go. 

 

“Well just...give it some thought,” she said finally. “See how you feel in a few weeks and maybe keep it in mind, ya know?” David nodded absently. 

 

“And you?” He asked after a moment, kicking out at her playfully with one booted foot. 

 

“Me?” Emma looked at him bewildered. “What about me?”

 

“I saw how you two looked at each other,” he countered, turning her own words against her. Emma felt her heart skip a beat. She looked down, kicking at the dirt with her toe. 

 

“It’s... complicated,” she said after a moment. “Very complicated.” 

 

“These things always are,” David said solemnly. “But that’s what makes them worth it.” 

 

Emma nodded slowly, a pang of homesickness making her chest hurt, a lump at the back of her throat. 

 

“I wish you luck on your journey Leia,” David said, pushing up from the wall to reach out, taking her by the shoulders, warm and reassuring. Emma expected him to pull her into his arms any second, and she was disappointed when he just looked down at her steadily. Her mouth felt dry, her eyes stinging with the threat of tears at being so close to someone she loved, being right there but unable to do anything about it.  It hurt.

 

“I promise you’ll find a way to break this curse even if seems a bit hopeless now. I haven’t known you long, but I know that neither of you are the type to just give up.” He smiled and gave her shoulders a squeeze before stepping back. 

 

“We won’t,” she said hoarsely. “I know you won’t give up either. Think about what I said with the message, okay?” She let out a shaky breath. “Thank you again, for everything Prince James.” 

 

He nodded slowly, still a bit hesitant to give too much away, either because he wasn’t sure what there was to give away, or because he didn’t want to let himself hope that there was, and stepped back, coughing slightly as he returned to the stall with the beautiful mare. 

 

“Safe travels, Leia.”

 

Emma nodded, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, the lump in her throat turning sharper and harder to swallow around. But despite how much it hurt she did feel a bit better, her heart a little lighter, the niggling sensation of unfinished business at the base of her neck eased slightly. She smiled at the thought, feeling a bit warmer now, and left the stable with one last lingering look at her father. She finally understood what Killian had meant. 

 

_____

 

The cart itself was more of a stilted two wheeled carriage than the roughly constructed farmer’s wagon Killian had been picturing, and he sent up a silent thank you to the Prince for his foresight. This vehicle was small, with large oversized spoked wheels, but comfortable, outfitted with plush cushioned seats that Emma would find much more agreeable than the hard plank of wood he had assumed was waiting for them, and a sturdy accordion cover to keep them out of the sun and the rain. It would do very nicely for the short journey to Maleficent’s castle and he smiled to himself as he set to work hitching up the beautiful docile mare the Prince had given them as well. 

 

“Off on a romantic carriage ride are we? Winning the heart of your beloved with shopping trips and silly gifts and moonlit strolls. How completely uninspired.”

 

Killian whirled, dropping the wooden shaft he had been about to secure in favor of his sword, drawing the blade as easy as breathing. Zelena rolled her eyes at him. 

 

“Oh please, haven’t we been over this pirate?” she ignored the weapon completely, eyeing the carriage with much more interest. 

 

“What do you want, Zelena?” Hook bit out, wanting nothing more than for a chance to run her through. He clenched his hand tighter around the sword, grinding his teeth together to keep from doing something foolish. He was glad he had sent Emma off to the stable, a run in with the sorceress probably the last thing she needed.  

 

“Just popping by to check on your progress or rather your lack of it,”  she flashed her teeth. “How  _ is  _ the Sleepless Savior?” 

 

Killian didn’t answer, just tried instead to take a deep steadying breath, a muscle working in his jaw as he regarded the source of all this pain, all this torment. He knew when he was at a disadvantage and a fully powered unhinged Zelena was probably something best not handled alone. He pursed his lips.  

 

She just smiled at him cheerfully as she reached out to touch Four, who snorted, aggravated, and took a few unsteady steps back, pawing with one hoof in the dirt. 

 

The smile turned to a sneer. 

 

“Horrid little beast aren’t you?” she snarled and turned her attention back to Hook, her expression turning once again to a bright cheerful smile. 

 

“So no luck with Dear Old Dad eh?” she pouted. “And here I thought that was sure to work. Maybe Prince Charming isn’t such a loving father after all?” Zelena stepped closer to the carriage, running one black gloved hand down the side of the glossy cream colored wood. 

 

“So now what’s the plan Captain, see if a kiss from Mummy Dearest might be the key?” Zelena turned back towards him. “You know that they say about a mother’s love. Or do you?” Zelena looked genuinely curious for a second before she shrugged, waving the thought away. 

 

“For someone who is supposed to be just as eager to have the curse broken to exact her revenge, you certainly do go on,” Killian said finally, resheathing his sword and giving her one last disdainful look before resuming his work. He doubted Zelena would kill him, she needed him to help Emma, so it was best to not let her waste another second of his time. The day was already growing late, and Emma weaker with each passing hour.

 

“Just offering suggestions dear,” Zelena shrugged, ignoring his tone. “Since you lot seem utterly incapable of handling it on your own I thought I’d lend my expertise.” 

 

“Well lucky me then,” Killian huffed, and reached out to Four, trying to calm her a bit with firm soothing strokes, slowly leading her step by step to the cart, but still eyeing the witch cautiously from the corner of his eye. The animal seemed to trust him, allowing herself to be led willingly between the shafts.

  
  


“If Daddy didn’t work it’s a safe bet Mummy won’t either,” Zelena reasoned. “ Maybe something with a more romantic flavor? Now, how about Rumple’s precious son? Neal was it? You’d think I’d remember that.” Zelena asked innocently.

 

Hook froze, closing his eyes at the sharp punch of pain at the mention of the man, the man who had once been a boy he had cared for, and also at the familiar lurch of jealousy and fear, the feeling that he wasn’t enough, that Emma wouldn’t have chosen him. That tiny insecure voice in the back of his head that told him  _ that _ is why the kiss hadn’t worked,  _ that _ is why Emma couldn't love him. He swallowed again, steadying himself before he opened them again.

 

Zelena made a little noise of delight.

 

“Yes, I bet that would work quite nicely. I mean they do share a son, and I’m sure he’s around, off drooling on himself somewhere in the universe. Mouth breathing his way to greatness,” Zelena murmured. 

  
  


“He’s not here, he left this realm long ago,” Killian said hoarsely. “And he’d be just a boy.”

 

Zelena just hummed dismissively. 

 

“Well, where there’s a will there’s a way I always say, and you’re running out of  _ time _ Captain,” Zelena’s voice grew hard. “If you want to save your little girlfriend you’d better be willing to do whatever it takes.”  She spat the last bit from behind him, the thick green smoke already swirling around her. 

 

“Tick, Tock dearie. You don’t have long left.”  

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Come chat over on tumblr @ripplestitchskein


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Killian go see a dragon.

_____

 

Despite the plush appearance of the carriage, the ride was less than pleasant. There was nothing in the way of suspension, and each divot and rut in the packed dirt road jostled them to and fro. It was definitely better than walking, but Emma would stick to the careworn, slightly springy seats of her Bug, cramped as it could be, over a seemingly endless carriage ride through miles and miles of never ending forest. 

 

Her body felt like a bruise, all dull aching pain and the sharp frustration that comes with having no way to ease it. Her skin crawled with anticipation, nerves frayed, and each jostle felt exactly like being punched. Keeping her eyes closed only heightened the sensations, focusing her attention on them and them alone. Opening her eyes was unfortunately no better, the sun too bright, the scenery monotonous and grating in its sameness.

 

She decided she hated the woods.

 

Beside her Killian was tense, cheek fluttering as he clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed at the road. He had come to fetch her, his face dark with rage, but he hadn't been forthcoming as to the reason. Just gently and firmly helped her into the carriage, ignoring her questions in favor of reminding her that their time was short.

 

Even though he was taut with tension, keeping a strange distance from her as he hadn't before, he was still careful with the horse, and every wince and frustrated groan from Emma had him steering around the rougher patches of the road. He had removed his coat as well, folding it for her to use as a pillow, and arranged their satchels around her as a buttress to do what he could to help. 

 

“Gentleman,” she thought with a smile, her tired eyes lazily tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the flexing cords of his neck. 

 

“What’s that Swan?” He looked down at her, the tension melting away to that soft expression she thought of as hers. She must have said it aloud.

 

“You really are a gentleman,” she said a bit louder. Her voice was slightly dreamier, punchdrunk, but she didn't have the energy to care. The surprised look on his face was almost worth the slip of her tongue, his mouth agape and caught off guard in a way he rarely was. It flickered briefly to pain, to remorse before settling into something blank and neutral. It confused her for a second but she pushed it away.

 

“Mostly pirate,” he said hoarsely, and turned his attention back to the road with a gulping swallow.

 

Emma just hummed disbelieving, and in another act of boldness, something making her giddy and reckless, something making her want to push through the wall he had put up since this morning, she laid her head on his arm, warm and firm through the thin linen of his shirt, and closed her eyes. It was less unpleasant this way, instead of focusing on every sway of the cart, on the loud crack and rumble of the wheels, she could focus on the harsh steadiness of his breath, the spicey clean scent of his skin, still fragrant from his bath and free of the smell of leather for once in their acquaintance. 

 

He froze for a second, but sighed in defeat and shifted slightly, letting her slide into the space between his arm and his chest, pulling her closer into the safe hollow of his arms as he took the reins in his hand again. She groaned this time in appreciation, the jostling less impactful with him to brace against.

 

This wouldn't have been possible just a few days ago, reveling in the small comforts, seeking solace in the one anchor she had to her life. The tension between them was too palpable then, too intense without her lowered inhibitions to aid her, but like in most things he followed her lead, and didn't hesitate in providing what small measure of comfort he could give. He kept doing it too, over and over letting her lower her inhibitions without asking for anything in return.

 

“Gentleman,” she thought again, this time truly internally and snuggled in deeper. 

 

“Swan,” she opened her eyes a moment later to the faint concern in his voice, a gentle “Whoa” to the horse and his arm pulling up in the reins.

 

He leapt down from the carriage, taking care to gently extract himself and see her settled before he made his way over to the tree that had caught his attention. Pale yellow parchment fluttered in the slight breeze, and she squinted to make out the image or the words from her perch. 

 

He frowned and yanked it down, bringing it back to the carriage, jaw set. It looked like another of Snow’s wanted posters, at first glance, but as he grimly held it up the feminine face was not Snow’s but a sharper one, a hawk like nose and titled eyes staring back at her. She blinked at him in confusion, her brain taking a minute to catch up before she realized it was  _ her  _ face. Or at least the one she was temporarily saddled with, the strange woman from the mirror captured in ink and charcoal. 

 

“WANTED FUGITIVE for crimes against the Queen. THEFT, TREASON. Known associate of Snow White. REWARD FOR CAPTURE. Seen traveling in the company of a dark haired man.” The parchment read, the accompanying likeness of Killian smaller in the corner, but still just as crisp and exact.

 

He frowned at it.

 

“They got the nose all wrong,” he muttered. “And there’s more of them of course,” Hook gestured to the trees lining the road ahead, more fluttering papers on every fourth or so, all down the way. 

 

“Well,” Emma sighed. “That sucks.”

 

“Aye,” Killian crumbled the poster in his fist. “We’ll have to take greater care. These magic disguises are more burden than benefit at this point. Best put your hood up.” He was already moving, climbing back into the carriage and lifting it around her head, settling it into place. 

 

“What do we do?” Emma asked, handing him back the reins. He gently coaxed the horse to move again. 

 

“This isn't the first time I've been given the honor of having my face immortalized. Usually they do me a bit more justice, but I guess it's not really  _ my _ face now is it?” he smirked down at her. At her unamused look he sobered, continuing. 

 

“Communication in this realm isn't as efficient as in Storybrooke with your portable phone things-” he gestured at her as if she had one on her person “-and this road isn't well traveled but still word will get out to all the towns and villages faster than we can get to them. We carry on as planned, with any luck, it won't matter.” 

 

He didn't look comforted however, scowling at each sign as they passed but not stopping to rip any more of them down. He didn't put his arm back around her, but held himself tense and distant on the other side of the bench seat. Emma couldn't help thinking as she watched them go by, that luck had so far not been on their side.

 

______

 

The Forbidden Fortress was aptly named, Emma noted, rising out of a dark vast lake on twisted rock spires, looming over the land it ruled, in defiance of physics and architecture, to cast its shadow over the barren mountains that made it impassable from any other side. 

 

It was also eerily quiet, the chittering chirping noises of the forest falling to hush as soon as their carriage made it to the rocky beach. The water almost black despite the sun, the wind stirring no waves and completely still, the reflection of the castle in the inky liquid unbroken by fish or fowl. 

 

“Well this is quaint,” Emma said, her attempted joke, echoing his earlier sentiments about the decrepit barn, falling flat as her voice lowered on its own to match the quiet. 

 

“How exactly are we planning on getting there?” She looked at Four, the animal unsettled and pawing nervously at the ground, eyes wide and anxious. “We’re not making the horse swim.” She warned.

 

Killian shook his head. 

 

“There’s a boat hidden in a cave,” he oriented himself and pointed his wooden hand. “That way. Or let's hope there is, there will be at some point in the future at any rate.”

 

“You’ve been here before,” it wasn't a question, he seemed to have been everywhere before. One stop out of thousands in his multiple century lifespan. It was a little overwhelming to think about.

 

“Aye,” his short reply and the brief flicker of discomfort told her that it wasn't a story he wished to share. Did he even have any happy stories she wondered?

 

“You stay with the horse and I’ll-” Emma cut him off with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand before he could continue further, anger rising.

 

“I'm not staying behind with the stupid horse like some kind of invalid,” Emma protested. Four let out a snorting huff and tossed its head in what could pass for indignation.

 

“I didn't mean it like that,” Emma told the creature seriously, she huffed as well. “Now I'm reasoning with a horse. This is great.” 

 

“I’m not saying you're an invalid Swan,” Killian said with a slight roll of his eyes that made her eyes narrow, ignoring the exchange. “You haven't slept in  _ days.  _ You can barely stand.”

 

She  _ was _ swaying a bit on her feet, her limbs heavy and slower but Emma stubbornly straightened up.

 

“I’m fine and I'm going. Lead the way,” without waiting for his argument, or any actual leadership, Emma took off in the direction he had waved, her legs, already sore from the previous day’s trek, protesting, but she continued to move forward determinedly. One foot in front of the other, balancing precariously on the sand.

 

Killian cursed to himself behind her, something about “bloody stubborn Saviors”, hurriedly gathering the reins and securing Four to the last outcrop of trees before the beach. Emma slowed a bit in deference to the animal, but continued her stalwart march forward as he hastily ensured the creature had food and water from their stock, and grabbed his coat swinging it on and hastily adjusting his sword.

 

“You don't know what we’re up against love,” Killian jogged up along behind her. “Did you forget the part where she can turn into a flame tongued lizard creature?” 

 

“I didn't forget I just don't care,” Emma snapped. “I'm not letting you face her alone, we’re doing this together or not at all.” 

 

“I could knock you out,” Killian threatened lamely. “Leave you in the carriage, let the bloody horse look after you.” Emma scoffed rolling her eyes, tripping slightly on the sand.

 

“Please. For one thing we both know you wouldn't hurt me,” Emma could see his face soften in surprise for the second time that day, “for another if I thought that was a way to finally get some damn rest I would  _ find _ you a stick to do it.” She sighed, turning to face him. “It's doubtful it would work with the curse, you  _ know  _ that, I already have a splitting headache, I hurt  _ everywhere  _ so can we  _ please _ stop this chivalrous protector nonsense and go see the damn witch who may, or may not, be able to help me get some fucking sleep?”

 

Her voice rose with each word, carrying across the water and echoing off the valley of the mountains. She hushed immediately at the contrast, feeling embarrassed at the tears that sprung to her eyes at the end of her tirade, frustration bubbling up and over the last vestiges her control. A few escaped, streaking down her cheeks, and she hastily brushed them away embarrassed at the wild display of emotions. This tendency to weep was getting ridiculous. She was no stranger to tears but she had never given into them so easily before. She was out of control, exhaustion and the situation making her feel on edge and slightly insane.

 

Killian was silent a moment, staring at the lake. His jaw twitched as he stood there for what felt like forever, battling with himself. She wasn't even sure he was breathing. 

 

And then he was moving, decided, crossing the small distance between them before she could blink, crushing her to his chest. She could feel his hand at the back of her hood, could imagine it tangled in her hair as he  _ clung  _ to her. All heartfelt apologies and feelings of uselessness felt in the press of his cheek her head, the grip of his arms holding her tightly. It was the same as their embrace in that castle room, perhaps a bit more familiar now, more natural, an apology and comfort all wrapped in one, saying with his body what they couldn't speak aloud.

 

“Bloody stubborn, infuriating woman,” he murmured, and rocked her once, twice. “Emma I-” but he broke the thought off and let her go as quickly as he had grabbed her. She felt the loss keenly, reeling a bit, a rending in her chest at his abrupt departure. He moved ahead, towards the mountains, putting distance between them again, separating them more than just physically, she could  _ feel  _ the chasm growing with every step he took.

 

“Well we might not have the element of surprise on our side any longer after that,” he said, not unkindly, trying to break the tension. “But let's go see a witch. “

 

_____

 

The cave was nothing more than a shallow opening where mountain met sea. Thick green algae covered every the surface, making the outcrop of rocks at the entrance slick and dangerous, Emma’s boots slipping on the muck. It smelled unpleasantly of mildew and rotting fish and small crabs scuttled along the floor, the only living things, scavengers of the last vestiges of the dead. They scattered into the sea when the pair entered, lost in the murky black water and scum.

 

Killian held out his hand helping her up onto the next bit of rock, ducking his head at the low rise of the cave roof. He looked relieved to see the small, worn dingy propped against the far wall, wood scarred and weathered with age, but apparently serviceable if his future use of it was any indication. An image of him in his pirate coat, traversing the slippery rocks, vengeful purpose driving his movements filled her head and Emma looked up at him alarmed.

 

“If we take the boat  _ now _ what will future-” she gestured to him “-you use when you get here?” 

 

The thought of something changing, of one small detail preventing the course of his life, altering his path in a way that took him elsewhere filled her with icy panic, her heart lurching at the thought. A thousand webs of possibility spanned out before her, a thousand moments in time suddenly made possible by one simple change, one single mistake. A change she had necessitated. A choice she had made to enter that barn despite his warning, a choice that could lead to them undoing everything that had led them to this point. 

 

She suddenly was very against this plan.

 

He looked at her, her hand still in his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

 

“Emma,” her eyes snapped to him, the rare sound of her name from his lips, more frequent in days past but still a novelty, a sign he was serious, drawing her out of her spiraling thoughts. “We’ll put it back exactly as we found it.” He said it like an oath. 

 

“We’ve been careful so far, everything seems to be on course,” he gave her another squeeze and a small smile.

 

She took in a shaky breath to calm her rapidly beating heart, and nodded at him, dropping his hand to rub it nervously on the fabric of her cloak, cheeks warm. His were flushed red as well and he seemed to curse at himself, that same odd resolve crossing his features. She couldn’t figure it out and it wasn’t the time to ask what the hell was wrong with him.

 

“So what's the plan when we get there?” Emma asked changing the subject, doing her best to push the panic and curiosity aside. “Wouldn't using the front door be the more polite strategy, since, you know, we are kind of asking her for a favor?”

 

“In my experience Swan-” Killian said, busying himself with righting the boat, slowly lowering it to the floor of the cave. He grunted and strained at the effort but managed the task without damage to the already questionable hull. “-people with power, people like Maleficent, are more apt to hear you out and refrain from the impulse to kill you immediately if you catch them off guard.”

 

He grunted again, using his shoulder to slide the craft into the shallow pool of water. He rose, breathing hard but satisfied. 

 

“They’re bored,” he said conversationally, grabbing an oar propped along the wall. “Human nature. All that power, all that longevity, vast wealth and fortune, nothing excites them.” 

 

He put it in the boat and grabbed the other. 

 

“So when something new comes along, an oddity, something  _ shocking _ ,” he smirked at her. “They naturally want to figure it out. Solve the puzzle. Learn how you bested them. Buys you some time for them to hear you out.” Killian shrugged. “Or she could incinerate us on the spot.”

 

“Cheery,” Emma said dryly. “Why didn't she  _ incinerate _ you the first time?” 

 

Killian looked uncomfortable again at the memory. He set the other oar in the boat and appeared to come to a decision based on the sharp nod to himself. 

 

“I offered her a deal,” he said in one expelled breath. She wanted to tell him he didn't have to tell her, his secrets could wait until he was ready, if he ever shared them at all, but he forged ahead anyway.

 

“Regina had betrayed her. Maleficent wanted her to suffer, wanted her vengeance, which I just so happen to know a thing or two about.” He smiled self deprecatingly.

 

“So in exchange for information on how to break into the Queen’s castle, get past her wards and her guards, for the chance to question a prisoner regarding a dagger I’d heard rumors could kill The Dark One,” he wasn't looking at her as he spoke, shame coloring his words. “I agreed to kill the prisoner so that he, in turn, would blame Regina for the death when Maleficent let word get out. It was someone he cared for very deeply, a crime he would not let go unpunished.” 

 

“Belle,” Emma said understanding who he meant immediately. 

 

“Aye,” he nodded. “Belle. I didn't hold up my end of the bargain, obviously, but unfortunately for her, it wasn't for lack of trying. I-” he paused, gathering the words. “I struck her, very near killed her, but Regina happened upon me in time. Thankfully for the lass.”

 

Emma took a minute processing, anger on Belle’s behalf and a small measure of disgust at war with the man he had proven himself to be since she’d met him. The man who had risked so much to help her, to help her son, her family. She had met the man Hook had been, a vengeful pirate out only for himself no matter the cost or consequence, but their acquaintance had been brief, colored by inconvenient attraction and a hesitance to trust, the image of that cold smirking man obliterated by months in his company, learning who he could truly be. 

 

Emma took a breath. He was still, barely breathing as he stared, jaw clenched at the boat, ramrod straight and bracing himself for censure, for her disgust and disapproval. His hand flexed and clenched at his side so hard she could see the whites of his knuckles before she spoke.

 

“What you did to Belle, then and after, when you shot her,” Emma clarified. “Was horrible.”

 

He nodded, the muscle in his jaw fluttering from the pressure of his teeth. 

 

He closed his eyes and her heart broke a little to see the shame on his face in that moment. She continued on, determined to make him see. 

 

“But you’re trying. We’ve all done horrible things, things we can't ever forgive ourselves for, but the trying-” Emma paused, taking in another deep stabilizing breath. “-the trying is what matters. And I've seen how hard you  _ try  _ Killian.” 

 

The tension eased in a slow wave, his chest rising from a sharp shaking inhale, eyes opening in something like wonder. They sparkled even in the dim light of the cave and he turned to her, his fingers unfurling from their grip as he stepped towards her, so close she could smell the clean scent of his skin again, feel his warmth contrasted with the chill of the enclosure. She wondered as she looked up at his awed expression how many centuries it had been since he had felt forgiveness. How long since someone believed in him, like Henry had believed in her. 

 

Her chest ached watching him look down at her, watching lips working fruitlessly to find the words he needed to express how he felt. 

 

Emma tilted her head up, leaning forward, an invitation, a request, something about the moment feeling  _ right _ , be it her lowered defenses or the slightly drunk feeling that came from hours without rest, something clicked into place, her lips parting slightly as her eyes fluttered closed. She remembered the feel of his kiss in a sticky humid jungle and wondered how it would taste in cool darkness. 

 

But he didn't give her the chance to find out. 

 

He cleared his throat her eyes snapping open in time to see the pain on his face, and then he turned away from her, back towards the boat. 

 

“What I did cannot be forgiven,” he said finally, pain lancing through her at what she recognized was his attempt once more at distance. The same resolve he’d shown before, the same stupid misguided sense of nobility, this deference to what he considered her destiny, the idea that somewhere out there was some mysterious True Love she was fated for. She could see it in the warring expression in his face and in the regret in his eyes when he continued, “But I will, as you said,  _ try _ to make it up to the lady Belle when we return. Make amends.”

 

“That’d be nice,” Emma said hoarsely as she watched him move to ready the boat, her eyes burning, emotions still reckless and raw from the exhaustion. She didn't want to cry, didn't want him to see that it crushed. Didn't want him to know that she knew what he was doing, and that it, frankly, pissed her off.

 

“We should reach the fortress by dusk,” he was saying, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, muscles tense again. “There’s a bit of a climb, a hidden stairwell in the curve of the stone.” He gestured across the water towards the stone pillars that held up the castle. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

Emma gave herself a shake, a firm bid to get it together and nodded.

  
  


“Yeah, the sooner we can get this over with the better,” she snapped, stalking past him to climb unsteadily into the boat, voice threaded with unspoken anger she couldn't seem to quash. She heard him sigh behind her, and even the anguish she heard in the exhalation did nothing to calm the hurt in her heart. 

 

___

 

“A bit of a climb” turned out to be the understatement of the century. “Brutal torture” would have been a more appropriate qualifier, the narrow grooves in the twisting stone, that could only passably be referred to as steps, seemed never ending. On and on they climbed, the sharply turning staircase making Killian's assistance impossible, his own footing precarious as he lead them up the pillar.

 

Small rocks and sandy grit fell from the crumbling stones with each step, and Emma found herself thankful once again that she wasn't afraid of heights. The dizzying drop into the sea made her already clouded head spin, and the stone wall was too weather worn to find adequate purchase for her hands. She was one loss of balance away from a very long tumble into the sea. 

 

She was  _ really _ starting to dislike this plan. 

 

“Alright love?” Killian asked from a few steps ahead, his wider frame on the narrow stairs just as much a danger as her slightly unsteady one.

 

“I'm fine, just keep going!” Emma tried to keep the trembling fear out of her reply. 

 

A few days ago this wouldn't have bothered her so much, she had faced worse, beanstalks disappearing into the clouds for one, but her pounding head and rubbery burning limbs were a different story now. Now she was afraid, the whistling wind threatening to push her off, and wondered if her stubbornness was about to get her killed.

 

“Not too much further,” he replied, another shower of small stones indicating he had taken another step on the other side of the pillar. “You can _do_ _it_ , Swan.” 

 

The encouragement was another thing she would have responded to differently in times past. This time she knew he meant it, he truly believed she could. His unwavering belief in her hurt all the more in the face of his rapidly shifting regard. Emma took another harrowing step and then another. She could see his legs just around the next turn and that heartened her slightly, the wind was too loud to hear him reliably, and there was nothing she could do if he misstepped, seeing him climb strong and true in front of her helped her lift her leg again. 

 

The nightmare spiral came to an end at a small wooden hatch above them, just wide enough for a human to enter. Killian braced his shoulder against the wall of the column for leverage and reached up, pulling down on a heavy wrought iron ring. The door didn't budge at first, stuck fast by rust and age, but he had the advantage of knowing it would work, and pulled harder. 

 

It gave with a sharp squeal and grind of metal and Killian faltered, thrown off by the sudden momentum, lurching dangerously close to the edge as he held onto the handle of the swinging door for all he was worth. Emma reached forward immediately, her fear and the lengthy drop forgotten as she grabbed onto his legs, steadying him on the stone. He looked down at her, shaken and grateful, and let go of the hatch. 

 

“There’s a ladder here,” he kept his voice quiet, barely audible over the screaming air but she could read his lips well enough and nodded, her stomach twisting, heart beating a rapid adrenaline fueled tattoo at his near miss. He pulled himself up onto a rung and slowly disappeared from sight. 

 

Emma followed closely behind, her arms screaming. She considered herself fairly fit, her infrequent exercise regimen in New York and battles with dangerous foes meant she was no slouch in the upper body strength department. But her muscles still protested each movement, weak and uncooperative as she hoisted herself into the dark overhead tunnel that lead in the castle. 

 

Killian reached down to help her, pulling her up the last few feet. Her limbs gave out just as she crested the entrance, and shakily unbalanced they sprawled backwards, Emma landing forcefully on his chest, his breath rushing out in a grunt on impact. 

 

She looked down at him and blinked, his face a mirrored picture of surprise, her palms braced on the firm warmth of his chest. He looked up at her, drawing in a slow breath, that made her rise slightly as his chest lifted, mingling with her own, blue eyes intense and burning into hers even in the darkness. She licked her lips, fingers flexing momentarily but the memory of his reaction in the cave doused her with cold reality and she scrambled off him with a hushed and awkward apology.

 

She brushed herself off, collecting herself, willing her heart to calm and looked around.

 

It was a closet of some sort she guessed, or a storage room, empty save for a few oak barrels and a wooden crate, decades of dust thick on their surfaces, the only light a dim glow from the edges of a rounded wooden door. 

 

Killian didn't speak, just gave her a moment, pressing a finger to his lips before pulling his sword an inch or so from its scabbard. 

 

“The better to slay you with my dear,” Emma thought wildly. Wondering who was the wolf in this situation. 

 

The closet opened to a large empty hall, intricate stained glass in bright vibrant colors running the length of it on either side in narrow rectangular bands. They both gave it a sweep, keeping an eye out for servants or guards, but the castle was still and silent. Where Midas’s had been bustling with activity day and night, the quiet hum of humanity, Maleficent’s castle was like a crypt, the only sounds the whistling wind through small cracks and fissures in the stone, the air ominous and thick with threat. It was creeping her out. 

 

Their footfalls seemed far too loud as they made their way carefully down the lengthy hall. Killian seemed to have some idea of where he was going at any rate and Emma stayed close, almost flush with the line of his back as they moved through the fortress.

 

The hall opened to a vast room, also sparsely furnished, huge and cavernous, a wall of more curving stained glass windows with beautifully weaving patterns of gradient purple, teal and gold set in the brick behind a rather plushly upholstered throne. The colors of the glass changed constantly depending on where they moved, at odds with the dark grim gray of the rest of the decor as they made their way into the room.

 

“Funny, I don't remember inviting any visitors today,” a cool smoky drawl came from behind them, the voice sending a cold shiver down Emma’s spine. She had never heard the woman speak before, their encounters thus far only of the dragon and dragon slayer variety, but the chill of her tone, that lazy wispy southern purr, made goosebumps rise on Emma’s arms.

 

They turned slowly to face her. 

  
  


The woman stood before them covered in yards of pastel poofs and tulle, a buttercream frosting of a dress nowhere near the dangerous sleekness Emma had been expecting. Golden ringlets cast lavender in the light of the windows framed the harsh set of her face, the pouting lips a pale rosy peach, her eyes wide and bright in blue and purple hues. Her crown sparkled with shimmering violet and gold glitter, more fairy than wicked sorceress. 

 

“We seem to have misplaced our invitations,” Hook smiled at her, bowing slightly. 

 

“Well let me help you find them,” the woman smiled sweetly in return and brandished a staff that reminded Emma of a giant lollipop, a crystal ball set in bat-like wings. Killian braced himself but didn't draw his sword. Not yet.

 

“I might have left them in my other coat,” he kept of the facade of easy charm. Emma however was itching to draw her own blade, the woman giving off a sense of danger that set every alarm bell ringing. She had killed her before, in a manner of speaking, she could probably manage it again.

 

Maleficent did look intrigued though, surveying the pair with a detached curiosity, her hand still gripped on the staff. 

 

Her eyes snapped suddenly to Emma, and she moved with unnatural swiftness towards her, a blurring shape of movement. The speed was the only thing that kept Emma from crying out and pulling her sword as one moment Maleficent was in one spot and with a lavender streak in the air she was in another. Killian’s hand went immediately to his weapon but he still didn't draw it, hedging his bets as the woman leaned in. 

 

She smelled sickly sweet, her perfume cloying and flowery, as she angled into Emma’s space so close she could feel her breath on her cheek, feel her nose on her neck as she  _ sniffed _ Emma, drawing in a deep lungful of air to catch her scent. 

 

“You reek of magic,” the woman said lowly, beginning a slow circle around her, the train of her dress dragging over Emma’s boots. 

 

“A curse,” Killian said after a moment, Emma too shocked at being  _ smelled  _ to reply. “It’s why we’re here actually, we hoped you might be able to assist us with it.” 

 

Maleficent hummed, her eyes still raking Emma curiously, still circling. 

 

“I'm not in the business of assisting people who break into my home,” she said coldly. 

 

“A bargain then,” Killian said, undeterred by her tone. How he could stand there so calmly was baffling to Emma, but she could see his hand flex near the pommel of his sword as Maleficent brushed her hair lightly with long nailed fingers, the only hint to his anxiety.

 

“Trust me dear,” the woman said dryly. “You have nothing I want.” 

 

Maleficent hummed again and backed away, going to her throne instead. She sat with a lazy bored grace. Emma felt herself sag with relief that she was gone, able to breathe again.

 

“What kind of curse?” Maleficent asked after a moment, her voice laced with intrigue. She didn't take her eyes off Emma, looking at her like a puzzle she needed to solve. It seemed Killian’s theory was being proven correct, she was far too curious to kill them outright. 

 

“Wakefulness,” Emma said finding her voice. “I can't sleep.” 

 

Maleficent’s eyes widened a fraction, but her face gave no other reaction.  

 

“You can see why we thought you might have particular insight into our problem,” Killian added. “Given your reputation.”

 

“Indeed,” Maleficent said. “What confuses  _ me _ is why you thought I would care?”

 

Emma looked uneasily to Killian but he didn't seem phased, merely shrugged. His calmness was driving her insane. 

 

“Don't misunderstand me,” Killian said. “We didn't seek you out because of your benevolence, but because we might be of use to you.” 

 

“Of use to me?” Maleficent scoffed. “What possible use do you think I could have for you?”

 

“You tell us,” Emma said hurriedly. “Surely there is something you want. Something we could help you with?” She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. 

 

“We are quite motivated,” Killian added helpfully. “No lingering todos? Enemies in need of handling perhaps? I can assure you we have many skills.”

 

Emma looked at him sharply, becoming a witch’s assassins was not part of what they had discussed. Hook was deliberately not looking at her, staring the woman down instead.

 

Maleficent pondered them in silence for what felt like an eternity. 

 

“I don't have what you seek.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Curses are a funny thing. Only the creator would know how exactly to break it and that curse does not belong to me.” She smiled wolfishly. “I am not so merciful. I prefer a more prolonged suffering.” 

 

All of the air seemed to be sucked from the room. All of this had been pointless. The journey, the boat, the terrifying climb and now, now they were going to die at the hands of a sorceress who hadn't had the means to help them anyway. Killian seemed to deflate as well, losing his easy posture, his hand falling away from his sword.

 

“But,” Maleficent said after a moment, reveling in their reactions. “There is something I can do in exchange for a little...shopping I need done.” 

 

“And what's that?”  Killian bit out. 

 

Maleficent waved her hand, a tiny bottle appearing in a cloud of pale lavender smoke. It was mostly empty, clear blue glass with the barest bit of liquid at the bottom. They eyed it curiously.

 

“My sleeping curse,” she said. “Or a modified version of it anyway. A little something to give your sweetheart some relief.”

 

“Curse her again?” Killian asked incredulous. “What good would that possibly do her?”

 

“Give her the gift of time dear,” Maleficent said as if it should be perfectly obvious. “It's not the full curse, just something I whipped up to take the edge off. Have a little fun.” Her eyes glinted. “I haven't used it in years, and there's not much left I’m afraid, a day’s worth perhaps.” Her smile was all faux innocence, her fist closing around the bottle. “I could make more of course, if I had the right ingredients.” 

 

Killian looked at Emma. She was exhausted, adrenaline fading, pain edging in again as they stood before the witch. She would do anything to make this stop. Anything to get them home, back to Henry, back to her parents. She just wanted it to stop.

 

She nodded at him, once and looked to Maleficent.

 

“What do you need us to do?” 

 

_____

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love and thanks to caprelloidea for the read through. And all my love with everyone who has stuck with this story despite the longish hiatus.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Killian run a little errand for Maleficent.

Maleficent’s answering smile was every bit the reptilian creature that lurked beneath the bubblegum and lollipop exterior before them. She paused for a moment, twirling the bottle idly in her hand.

 

“My sleeping curse requires a very rare and difficult to procure ingredient. One that is out of my reach now. But if you want more of this potion, then you two will need to fetch it for me.”

 

Killian slouched, indolent, his eyes already rolling. Emma could tell though, by the set of his jaw, the faint white of his knuckles as he gripped his belt, that he was far more on edge than he appeared, deliberately not looking at her again. 

 

“I'm sure it will be just as simple as popping down to the village market. We’ll make a day of it,” the false cheer and wide blue eyes had unease stirring in her stomach. The arrogant pirate captain of old making an appearance never boded well, brought out when things were particularly dire, when he had few other options at his disposal, but rarely was it because of  _ her _ decision. It was clear he didn't want her to take this path and it seemed wrong to have him doubt her, to not have his full support.

 

“Not quite,” Maleficent was all teeth. 

 

“What fearsome hell creature are we to slay then?” Killian asked. “Or is this an errand of the rob and run variety?” 

 

“Nothing quite so dire,” Maleficent eyed the pair of them. “Have you heard of the Forest Mother?” 

 

Emma and Killian both said “No” in unison but where Emma’s was an answer to the question, Killian’s was a firm declaration of intent. Maleficent’s eyes danced at him.

 

“Then I'm sure you understand the… difficulties in acquiring it myself,” she addressed the statement to Killian alone. 

 

“Well I don't,” Emma snapped, impatience and exhaustion threatening what little sanity she had. She was tired of these little meetings of the Super Cryptic Enchanted Forest Club, tired of being on the back foot, beholden to wicked witches and ridiculously poofy sorceresses and never knowing at any moment what fresh new horror awaited them. Tired of feeling like her judgement was impaired, like nothing she did was the right choice. Mostly she was just plain tired. She just wanted to go  _ home,  _ she just wanted to  _ sleep _ . 

 

“And I don't care.  _ Charles _ give her the map.” 

 

“Love, I don't think-” he started but Emma glared at him, cutting off the coming protest. He sighed, resigned, and shuffled a bit, reaching into the satchel crossed along his chest with jerking, frustrated movements. 

 

“Forest Mother doesn't sound particularly frightening, I think we can handle it. Mark where we need to go and tell us what the hell we need to get,” Emma bit out. 

 

Maleficent laughed, tinkly and mocking, enjoying their division. She took the reluctantly offered map.

 

“Of course, dear,” she waved a hand, a ridiculous purple feathered quill appearing between her fingers to scrawl a rough circle on the parchment with a pleased flourish. It reminded Emma of contracts signed in blood, of  souls given away for dark promises. Maleficent let the feather play across her lips for a moment, very much enjoying herself, before vanishing it away. Killian took it back with a false smile, his hand fisting around it as he stuffed it back into his bag. 

 

“But that won’t be enough,” she crooned. “That forest is where the witch lives but she will be much more difficult to actually find.”

 

“Of course she is,” Emma said rolling her eyes. “So how do we find her?” 

 

Maleficent waved her hand again, a small ball of yarn appearing where the quill had been. It seemed to glow with a golden internal light, definitely not for blankets then, and Killian took this as well, eyeing it skeptically. 

 

“When you reach the Dark Forest this will guide you to her.” 

 

 

“What are we asking her for?” His question was asked with clenched-teeth reluctance, practically vibrating with tension. It was evident he was  _ very _ much not in favor of this course, and that was particularly troubling considering his usual willingness to do whatever was necessary, despite his or her concerns. It was also extremely aggravating, exhaustion spiking against her nerves. She glared at him, and he looked momentarily cowed, giving her a glance of apology even as his hand squeezed around the yarn, the light glowing between the spaces of his fingers. 

 

She had seen him brave many terrible things, charging forth without a thought to his well being firsthand. Whoever this “Forest Mother” was he did not want to tangle with her and that was perhaps the most unsettling part of an already terrifying day. Wanted posters on the road, that terrifying climb, a dragon witch, and now some mysterious forest dweller who made him look like he’d rather eat glass than make her acquaintance. 

 

“The horn of a black unicorn.” 

 

Emma snorted, her discomfort and Hook’s conflicting behavior forgotten.

 

“A unicorn? Seriously? Do you need us to jaunt over to Candyland and steal some gumdrops from Lord Licorice as well?” 

 

“Not a unicorn,” Maleficent said ignoring her, not even batting an eyelash at what was surely a rather bizarre and definitely not timeline friendly statement. Emma was too exhausted to care anymore. 

 

“A  _ black _ unicorn. An aberration, born of darkness and cursed by death himself.” 

 

“How cheery,” Emma rolled her eyes again. “How much is this unicorn horn going to cost us?” 

 

“I don't set the price,” Maleficent said. “She’ll let you know.” 

 

“So something between a farthing and our immortal souls,” Killian said, all sarcasm. Maleficent looked completely unsympathetic.

 

“Do you want my potion or not?” 

 

Killian opened his mouth, no doubt an eloquent description of exactly where the witch could put her potion poised to come out, but Emma was faster.

 

“ _ I _ do. We’ll follow your sparkly ball of yarn and get your stupid evil unicorn horn or whatever,” she stepped in front of him and held out her hand. 

 

“Just a little taste,” Maleficent beckoned her forward, her voice soft. “To ensure you come back.” She paused. “Well, if she _ lets  _ you that is.”

 

Emma looked down at the bottle once again in the woman's hands, at the long needle she drew out of it, fear rising along her spine. It was thick and wickedly sharp at the end, made of blackened wood, like the spindle of a spinning wheel. Visions of green smoke and raven’s eyes, a pretty cartoon princess caught in a trance flashed through her mind. She had never been a fan of that particular movie as a child and even less so now, facing a needle held by the main attraction. 

 

“Em-Leia, are you sure you want to do this?” Killian asked quietly behind her. 

 

She didn't look at him, couldn't look at him, lest her resolve crumble, stepping forward towards Maleficent as her answer instead.

 

The sorceress’s hand was icy cold as she took Emma’s in her own, freezing against her skin as she slowly turned her palm up, holding the needle above it. 

 

“Just a little prick,” Maleficent murmured, and pressed the tip into Emma’s thumb. 

 

It stung, a sharp stick of pain, and blood welled, dripping down the slope towards her palm as she tried to pull back with a hiss, but it was short lived.

 

Emma’s knees buckled suddenly beneath her as a wave of pure sensation washed along her body in a rushing tide. It poured down from her scalp to her toes, an all encompassing ecstasy, a drowsy sort of liquid honey heat filling her up, spilling over. Killian was there in an instant, catching her in his arms, her legs unable to support her as she turned, sagged into him, and  _ moaned _ against his chest. 

 

It was the most incredible feeling in the world, a building sort of energy beneath her skin, sparks of heat at the edges setting her alight. She could feel every nerve, every point of contact between them, and she shifted further into his space, unable to help herself, her eyes fluttering closed as she pressed her cheek to the firm hot skin between the vee of his shirt. She was on fire with it, drawing in his warmth, the feel of him beneath her, letting it coalesce with the pleasure sinking into her bones.

 

“Oh my god,” Emma panted out against him. He tensed, clutching her tighter with his arms. When she looked up at him, his jaw was set again, his eyes darker, searing into hers, conflicted worry set on his face. Emma swallowed, and grabbed blindly at his shirt, fingers scrabbling across his chest. Her legs felt even weaker if that was possible, no longer sore, and the world was sharper and brighter to her eyes, everything honed around the edges. 

 

Maleficent’s dark knowing laugh pulled Emma away from it, away from him, had her jerking out of his arms with sudden realization. She was practically climbing the man, and he looked tense and conflicted when she darted her eyes back up to his. He shuffled uncomfortably in place, still clutching the ridiculous ball of yarn. She couldn't care very much though, fleeting thoughts of consequences vanished in an instant, a concern for another day. She couldn't be bothered to worry. Not when she felt like  _ this _ . Like she had awoken from the world’s best nap, like sheets warmed to body temperature and lazy Sundays in bed, orgasmic delight suffused and concentrated in its purest form. She was boneless and weak with it, but energized as well, electric heat zipping along her limbs. She felt like she could do  _ anything _ . 

 

“Don't get used to it dear,” Maleficent's said dryly her eyes raking over her. “The next time is never as incredible as the first.” 

 

She looked almost sad, glancing down at the bottle clutched in her hand, her face yearning with memory.  _ That _ was scarier than anything. Emma had spent enough time on the streets, had dealt with enough of the seedier sides of life to know the look of an addict, the hollow emptiness and resignation of the recovered. She almost felt sorry for the witch, and very, very unsure if this was a good idea. 

 

Maleficent closed her fist around the glass.

 

“This is not a cure, mind you, it will only… temporarily mask the symptoms. As soon as that little taste wears off the curse will hit you again, like you had never taken this at all.”

 

The thought of going back, of feeling that terrible ache, the helpless fog, or worse, was scarier still, a rapidly building tower of one new fear after another. Emma wanted to snatch the bottle from her hands, hoard it away, keep herself from ever feeling the helpless pain again. Instead she squared her shoulders, shaking out her limbs to rid them of the tingling buzz, and stared at Maleficent levelly, her fingers still trembling. 

 

“Guess we better get our hands on that horn quickly then.”

 

______

 

“This place is creepy as hell.”

 

Killian only grunted in response,  _ had _ only grunted in response since they’d left Maleficent's fortress, his attention fixed firmly on the rapidly unfurling ball of yarn, the tail end tucked into his hand. 

 

It  _ was _ incredibly creepy. The Dark Forest, the patch of map Maleficent had indicated, apparently wasn't named for the color of the foliage, or even the amount of light it received, but rather the general feeling of unease it evoked. The bark on the trees was silvery white, reminding Emma of bleached bone, a sea of skeleton sentries surrounding them on every side. Gnarled twisting branches reached down from all angles, like creeping hands and knotted fingers. It was colder in the wood too, the spring to summer sun hidden behind a sudden blanket of gray winter clouds overhead, the wind crisp and chilling. It had her pulling her cloak tighter around her, shifting into Killian’s space to leech his warmth, trying not to feel the pang of hurt when he shifted away.

 

Still, it didn't seem to be just the temperature that set a chill to her bones, there was something about the place, a hanging presence, a low fog of disquiet blanketing everything. The red leaves carpeting the forest floor rolled before them like a river of blood, and as with Maleficent’s lake valley, it was completely and utterly silent. 

 

“I feel a little like a cat,” Emma tried again. His silence was freaking her out as much as their surroundings, the flickering muscle in his cheek making rapid time with their footsteps. If she had been standing closer she imagined she could hear the scrape of his clenched teeth over the rustle of the leaves under their feet. 

 

That did get his attention however. 

 

“Pardon?” 

 

Emma gestured to the yarn. It still glowed with that faint yellow light, the tightly wound ball skipping over the roots and dead leaves, the rocks and furrows, as if it hovered or flew through the air. 

 

“Cats,” Emma said. “They chase yarn.” 

 

“They do?” He almost stopped walking. 

 

“They don't have cats where you come from?” It was a ridiculous conversation but Emma was feeling keyed up and giddy, nervous energy filling the wells of her joints, the rush of adrenaline from the potion slow to fade, and the silence of the wood made her feel like she should say  _ something _ . 

 

And Killian was almost... scared. She could tell by the furrow of his brow, the uneasy flicker of his eyes. She had seen him scared before, his face twisted in fear, eyes wide, but it had always been for her, or Henry, never for himself. Fear for himself took on a different cast, like a man determinedly facing the gallows, and it frightened her. He had been uneasy in the castle, reluctant, but now he looked paler and drawn, the yarn almost trembling where he gripped it.

 

“Of course they bloody do, but they chase rats and pests not bits of string,” the look on his face was so filled with disgust she had to bite back a smile to keep from laughing at him directly. “What use is chasing a ball of yarn?”

 

“It's cute?” Emma offered. He only huffed, and kept moving forward. “Seriously. Killian.” She reached forward, grabbing the arm of his coat to stop him.

 

“What is wrong with you?” 

 

Emma chased his flickering eyes with her own, trying to catch them. She attempted a different question.

 

“Who is this Forest Mother?”

 

“A children’s tale,” he waved his hand, the string dancing in the air. “A fairy story.” 

 

“Lemme guess, she's not the nicest witch in the wood?”

 

Killian gave a little motion, a half shrug. A lie told in body language. 

 

“She is not a figure of evil if that’s what you’re asking,” he said finally, and continued forward, the ball of yarn further ahead of them now. 

 

“Then why are are you all-” Emma gestured at him as she walked. “Like this.” 

 

He was silent a moment, before he sighed, resigned. 

 

“When I was a lad, the crew, they told all sorts of tales, not a lot to do on a ship after all. Many of them were the cautionary sort, meant to frighten children in the night, make them think twice about poor behavior. The Forest Mother was a particular favorite of theirs.” He said it matter of factly but his eyes gave away his discomfort, the burden of memory. He may have mastered his voice but he had never quite figured out the eyes. 

 

The thought of a younger Killian, floppy dark hair and those same revealing eyes, hiding beneath the covers after hearing scary stories in the dark had her heart clenching in her chest. 

 

“What's so scary about her?” Emma asked softly. 

 

“She peers into your soul, takes the measure of you, and if she doesn't like what she finds, she throws you into her oven, and consumes you,” Killian said this too as if it was the most normal thing in the world, which she supposed, given where he’d grown up, it was. 

 

“Where I come from if you’re a bad kid Santa just doesn't bring you presents,” Emma offered. 

 

“It's said she can see into your soul. Your true soul,” Killian was speaking quietly as he moved, almost inaudible over the sounds of the leaves, ignoring the mention of Santa completely. “Only the pure of heart can seek her help or stand unmolested before her.”

 

Emma swallowed, understanding a bit. She could remember the shame and anguish on his face in the cave, the guilt that he carried, always so heavy on his shoulders, weighing him down as surely as his trademark leather coat. Even now he walked as if he still wore it, centuries of terrible deeds trailing behind him. 

 

“And you thought she was going to...eat you?” Emma asked. 

 

He flashed her that false smile as they moved forward, chasing the yarn.

 

“I was a difficult child, rebellious, for... many reasons,” his smile turned a bit more genuine. “I'm sure that's difficult to believe.” 

 

“I am having a lot of trouble picturing it,” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work, and the smile fell from his face completely.

 

“When we’d make shore they’d take us to the woods. Leave us on the edge. A simple jest to keep us in line, but an effective one,” he swallowed, overcome with memory and Emma’s heart lurched. “I never feared the punishment,” he said, looking away from her again, fixated on the ball making its way across the forest floor. “Just the confirmation.” 

 

“Little you thought he had, what? Some blackened soul?” 

 

The shrug he gave was small but no less heartbreaking. 

 

“I imagine if it wasn’t then, it surely is now,” he looked further ahead. “We’re getting behind.” 

 

“Killian wait-” Emma struggled to follow him, his longer strides eating up more ground than she could cover, plowing through the dense leaves more easily. “Killian-”

 

Killian froze in front of her, the strand of yarn falling forgotten to the forest floor. The connection broken, the leading ball seized up as well, shuddering to a stop yards away. 

 

“What-” before she could say another word Killian grabbed her hand jerking her roughly to the side as hooves sliced the air where she’d been standing. Emma fell hard, pain vibrating up her elbows as she landed, and above her a horse gave a terrible shriek. 

 

The rider was white as moonlight, pure and glowing before them, a faceless specter on a ghostly mount. She cried out startled, as Killian grabbed her again, barely rolling her out of the way as the creature brought its hooves down once more, clawing at the leaves where she had been sitting. 

 

“Your sword,” she heard him cry, already drawing his own as he stood. Emma fumbled, rising on wobbly knees with shaking hands, barely able to wrap them around the blade before the rider struck out at her. She scarcely dodged in time, the blade cutting through the air, a sharp whistle in her ear.

 

“Swan!” Killian’s yell told her his position behind her but she couldn't take her eyes off their opponent to check his condition. 

The rider backed his mount up a few paces, but his blade, a crystalline shard of opalescent glass, was still wickedly sharp and pointed right at her, ready to strike. 

 

Emma swallowed. She could feel Killian pressing into her back as he moved, apparently upright and unharmed, leaves rustling under his feet in the silence, solid and firm against her. She wanted to sag in relief that he was okay, but she held her sword out instead, rigid. 

 

“What do we do?” She asked. The snowy mount whickered. It was a haunting noise unlike any animal she had ever heard before, worlds away from Four’s friendly sounds, turning her blood to ice water in her veins. She shivered.

 

“There’s two more,” Killian said grimly.

 

“Damnit,” she could feel him nod behind her in agreement and she cast her eyes quickly to the side to check their positions.

 

The one in her periphery was red as blood, seeming to rise up from the scarlet leaves of the forest. Where he ended and they began was indistinguishable, and that was extremely unsettling. He was more solid than his white counterpart, less formless, but no less formidable. She turned slightly, and saw the third, this one completely devoid of color, leeching the light from all that surrounded him, a fathomless human shape only vaguely a man cutting into the tree line like a rift in space. Terror seized her at the sight of him, a walking nightmare in gray daylight. 

 

“What the  _ hell _ are those?” Emma bit out, her grip tightening around her weapon. It didn't seem like enough. 

 

“I have no idea,” Killian murmured. “But they don't seem pleased to see us.” 

 

“You think?” Emma snapped. She could barely breathe, fear was filling her lungs, solid and choking in her throat. It  _ poured _ off them, an invisible mist settling over her skin, making it crawl and itch as the feeling intensified, an almost tangible thing. She tried for levity, anything to shake the feeling off, to make it go away. 

 

“I used to watch this show as a kid. Always thought I’d make a good Yellow Ranger.”

 

Killian huffed impatiently behind her, clearly not getting the reference, as he settled into a tense defensive posture. Emma however was babbling.

 

“Sorry Black is taken. You can be Blue though. It would go well with your eyes. I never really liked the Green Ranger so we’ll skip that one.” 

 

“Excellent, whatever your heart desires. After we handle this, aye?” 

 

She tried to focus on them, to look at their faces, be bold, but her eyes kept sliding past of their own accord, burning and stinging with every attempt. Clever quips and taunts died formless in her mouth.

 

She could feel Killian’s every move behind her pressed against her back, the faint tremble of his body vibrating up her spine, similarly affected by the crippling fear that had settled in the clearing at the rider’s appearance. The creatures, for these were no men, were death incarnate, something otherworldly and  _ wrong. _ And they were definitely going to kill them. 

 

Emma reached blindly back with her free hand, skirting his hips, and grasped his wooden hand, giving it a squeeze, more for herself than him. He tugged back, a reassurance, and something else, as he stepped forward. 

 

“It seems we haven't been properly introduced,” Killian said finally, his voice was calm, just a faint tremor under his usual bravado. Emma could hear her blood rushing in her ears, the nameless terror replaced with fear for him as he stepped forward. She turned, catching the end of his bow, the urge to ask him what the hell he was doing, to grab him and  _ run, _ was overwhelming her, her legs burning with the need to move.

 

He was ignoring her though, half circling her to face each of the figures in turn. 

 

“Killian Jones,” he said to them. “We seek audience with the Forest Mother or The Bone Mother, as she may be known to you.” 

 

“If Maleficent had led with that title I probably wouldn't have accepted so fast,” Emma muttered. Killian shot her a look that could only mean _ “Shut up, Swan.” _  She clapped her lips closed. 

 

_ “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”  _

 

The three of them spoke as one, the sound of their voices scraping down her spine, sinking the terror into her bones, goose flesh springing up among her arms. 

 

“Not so good with riddles, mates,” Killian said. “Come again?” 

 

_ “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”  _

 

This time the voices were accompanied by the quiet hum of energy, their weapons: the crystalline sword, the scythe of shadow, and a ruby tipped stave glowed bright, brighter, charging, as one.

 

“What does that mean?” Emma looked at Killian, exchanging a wild eyed glance before he took a step back towards her.

 

_ “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”  _

 

The humming buzz of electricity grew louder, the weapons glowing brighter.

 

“No idea, but we should probably figure it out,” Killian said, no lack of urgency in his voice as he pressed against her back again, the two of them trying to keep the specters in their lines of vision. 

 

“We’re surrounded by forest! And we are looking  _ right at you.”  _ Emma said frantically, her eyes darting from tree to tree, seeing no break in the wood. She tried to focus her eyes on them again, but they kept shifting away, their faces burning embers, the rapidly growing light of their weapons too harsh, like staring into the sun, purple and blue splotches in her vision when she blinked.

 

_ “Turn your back to the forest, your heart to me.”  _

 

“Emma!” Killian was jerking her around, his sword falling forgotten into the leaves. The energy hummed and spit like downed power lines, sparking in the air around them. His hand grasped her shoulder, fingers digging in, the wooden hand pressing against her arm. He stared at her, blue eyes locking with her own. “Look at me,” he said firmly. “Only me.” 

 

Emma wasn't sure if this was a final moment thing, a fleeting glimpse of each other before death took them, but she knew she couldn't look away if she tried. If the last thing she saw was him that wouldn't be so bad, she reasoned. The temptation to shift her eyes away, to check the riders was overwhelming, but Killian’s were steady and true, open and honest, and she couldn't look away.

 

The clearing was suddenly silent, the harsh pants of their breath the only sound. Emma looked up at him in confusion, unsure if it was safe to move, unsure if she wanted to. His fingers pressed further into her arm. It was a subtle sway, the feel of his breath on her face, and she leaned in.

 

“Oh very good. Two hearts for one,” the voice was ancient and accented, breaking through the silence. Emma jerked back as a bundle of rags and fabric joined them in the clearing at the edge of her vision. She was still too afraid to move, to turn her head to look at it fully.

 

“Well come along then. I won’t wait all day,” the figure shuffled, leaves rustling with rasping rhythmic sweeps somewhere beside them. The thick inflection on her words made them sound more like “vell” and “vont” and “den” but Emma could understand well enough. 

 

She looked at Killian in question, his face a bit paler, his shoulders slumping with equal parts concern and relief, chest still rising and falling with gasping breaths. He hitched them in a little shrug, and they turned as one to face the new arrival. 

 

An old woman, hunched over and twisted by time was hobbling away, a silver birch broom painting along the path behind her. The riders were gone from the clearing, disappeared as quickly as they had come, and in their place a small hovel rose into the air, surrounded on all sides by a fence of thick white sticks and rounded posts. Emma pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a noise when she realized what exactly it was made of. She grabbed Killian’s arm, tugging on it.

 

Bones. Skulls. A fence of human remains marked the perimeter of the old woman’s house with haunting grins, yellowed with age, and flaming sockets where eyes would be. The house the fence protected was decrepit and sad, made of darkened rotting wood and crumbling decaying thatch, rising up into the canopy of the trees on thick heavy stilts, sinking into itself with the burden of time and neglect.

 

Emma did kind of shriek when it  _ moved _ , Killian barely getting his hand over her mouth in time, palm hovering just above her lips, his fingers warm against her cheek as the stilts shifted, as they  _ walked _ . The house turned in a circle on towering chicken-like legs, sharp talons as thick and wide as several people digging into the dirt and leaves. It lifted one to scratch the other, and settled back to the forest floor.

 

“What the hell is that thing, ” Emma hissed into the cup of his hand. Killian pulled her back against him, his breath hot in her ear, his chest firm against her back once again.

 

“Careful, love, I don't think she’ll take too kindly to us insulting her dwelling,” he warned in a whisper, for her ears only, releasing her to step hesitantly forward. Emma shivered, her face flushing. 

 

“Etiquette in these situations is rather...fraught. Probably best if I take the lead on this one,” he murmured. He didn't sound particularly delighted by the prospect. 

 

Emma scoffed at the implication, forgetting his nearness in her indignation. She could be polite if she needed to be. She watched as the house turned, scratching ineffectually at the dirt, the flaming eyes of the skull fence posts flickering with the disturbance, and she bit off a startled curse. He might have a point, and by the rise of his eyebrow he knew it.

 

The old woman turned suddenly at the gate, pointing the handle of her broom at the two of them. Her face was a map of deep and jagged wrinkles, her nose as gnarled and twisted as the skeleton trees, hooked at the end like every scary witch in every scary story Emma had ever read. But her eyes were lovely sea glass green, twinkling and ominous at the same time. She jabbed the handle at them again, and Killian leaned back in defense. 

 

“Do you come of your own will or another's?” 

 

They answered at the same time, only put off for a moment by the abruptness of the question.

 

“My own,” Killian said, bowing slightly.

 

“Another’s,” Emma said warily.

 

Killian tilted his head to look at her in exasperation. 

 

The woman stared at them hard for a moment, the pupils of her magnificent eyes an impossible black, and Emma could barely breathe under the scrutiny.

 

“Your truth reveals much. It will be important for what is to come,” the witch said. It was unclear, however, who she was talking  _ to _ , and she simply turned, beckoning them with an easy wave to follow her.

 

Emma swallowed, looking up at Killian. He looked as uneasy as she felt, his tongue swiping across his lip as if steeling himself for something. She wanted to reach out, to grab his hand, comfort and solidarity in one simple gesture, but he was already moving protectively in front of her, walking through the gate of bones.

 

____

 

The tales from the mouths of impish hardened sailors took on life before his eyes and old childhood fears, thick and cold, filled his chest as the old crone led them through the gate.

 

It was just as they said. A hovel on the legs of birds. A fence of bone, her victims held forever to stand guard against the unworthy. There was a mouth of gnashing teeth set in the rotted wood of a door, where knob and keyhole should be, and Killian repressed a shudder as the teeth snapped playfully at her fingers when she opened it. The pair followed her into the house, the spindly legs bending low to allow them entrance. 

 

“Who were those guys?” Emma asked from behind him. Never content to do as he asked his Swan, never one to just blindly follow his lead. He glared at her without heat, but she was focused on the dwelling, her eyes taking it in, grasping the wall to steady herself as the house rose suddenly into the air again. “The ones on the horses.” She looked queasy, clutching her stomach as the dwelling moved beneath them.

 

“The price for the answers you seek is precious time, would you have me waste mine on such trivialities?” The crone asked, casting one sea green eye over her shoulder as she reached to stoke the flame of her oven. 

 

He knew that oven. It ate the bones of the wicked and the vengeful. It charred them as black as their unworthy souls and the witch would feast for days, or so the stories said. It was a monstrous thing to finally see in person, the grates like snarling teeth and haunting eyes, the flame within burning blue and green with an unnatural heat. No mere coals and wood could produce such hellfire. 

 

Killian shifted back, setting himself firmly between Emma and the heaving stove.

 

“I guess not?” Emma was saying, looking up at him bewildered and he shook his head slightly. It was best to be direct and to the point, get in and get out before things went wildly off course. He didn't particularly care who the creatures had been anyway, they were gone and the witch was before them. She was the real threat here

 

The witch looked at Emma with a sharp disappointment. “If only you were willing.” She murmured. Emma frowned at him in concerned confusion. He shrugged.

 

He had met his fair share of seers and soothsayers, knew they spoke in riddles and delighted in tricks and could certainly not be trusted. That the mother of this wood hadn't immediately struck them down was fortune enough, and he didn't feel the need to push their luck any further with pointless queries as to the nature of her servants, or fall into any of her clever traps.

 

He stepped forward.

 

“We have been sent to obtain a-” the old woman’s craggy hand waved him off, hobbling across the broken boards of the floor. 

 

The entire place seemed on the verge of collapse, and it shifted imperceptibly as the creature’s legs below shuffled and moved. He should have found the subtle sway and ebb comforting, like ocean waves, but it was rather like being in the belly of a great beast, swallowed alive and left to decay. 

 

Killian resisted the urge to gulp.

 

“I know what you seek,” she led them across the hut to a darkened corner and motioned for them to sit. The table, and the mismatched set of chairs around it were the only furniture in the room save for a spartan sleeping pallet on the other side of the dwelling, and of course the infernal heaving oven.

 

One of the chairs, however, was already occupied.

 

“There’s. A. Skeleton,” Emma hissed quietly at his back, as if his eyes were not able to suss that out for himself. 

 

It was dressed very well for a bag of bones he thought, a top hat sitting jauntily on a yellowed skull, a cravat tied smartly about its bony neck. It was as much a guest as they were it seemed, a saucer and teacup set at the place before it, the shadows of the corner barely hiding it from view. 

 

“My Ivan,” the old woman said waving another hand dismissively. “Now. A drink to honor guests and honor hosts.” 

 

Killian sat hesitantly as she bid on a rickety rocking chair pushed up to the table, motioning for Emma to do the same on the small stool beside him. He had a bit of experience here as well, lifetimes of witches and sorcerers and fae, all with different codes and unwritten rules. To eat in one set of company could damn you for eternity, to not eat in another could result in a swiftly assured death. That the only other guest in attendance was a pile of nicely attired bones did not bode well for their chances of choosing correctly.

 

“You may call me Baba Yaga,” the woman said, bustling about the room as she prepared a pot of tea. The clink of porcelain and the hiss of steam filled the cabin mixing with the acrid smoke. Emma glanced at him uneasily.

 

“You come to seek a gift,” Baba Yaga said, setting a small teapot down in the center of the table. “Answers to your questions.”

 

“We only need a black unicorn horn,” Killian corrected. “Nothing more.” 

 

“I know what you seek,” she repeated, settling into the chair. “I provide only what the willing need. Let us drink,” She motioned to the teapot, and smiled, a wicked pull of lips across teeth. He raised an eyebrow at her.

 

Killian was also, despite what he had told the riders in the wood, well versed in tricks and riddles, one could not survive the dangers of Neverland without that particular skill, and he smiled at her winningly.

 

“Just me milady, begging your pardon,” he bowed his head respectfully, careful to keep one eye trained on the witch. Her smile grew, yellowed skin stretching across bone, and she nodded, pouring a bitter brew from the teapot.

 

“Your will is your own after all,” she said slyly. She cast her eyes to Emma. “And hers is another’s.” 

 

“Precisely,” he took a sip of the tea before Emma could protest or question him, giving her a warning glance and nothing more. She looked at him, still confused, but things were moving too quickly for them to confer, trapped high above the ground in a witch’s cabin, invited to tea with skeletons. He just hoped she would follow his lead, would keep silent and safe and let him handle this. He had no idea what he was doing truly, what horror awaited him in this hovel, in that cup, but better him than her. That was the only truth  _ he _ knew. 

 

He tried not to gag. The tea was stagnant and tepid, as stagnant as it smelled, but he sipped again and again until the cup was empty. His stomach roiled in protest, water filling his mouth as he tried not to vomit. 

 

Baba Yaga’s lips pulled against her teeth again in delight and she snatched the cup away, turning it in her hand once, twice, and a third time before overturning it on the mismatched saucer before him. 

 

“No peeking,” she warned.

 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Killian rasped. His voice was hoarse and raw, choked with bile, and he appreciated the comforting hand Emma laid on his arm, the concern and confusion written on her face. He smiled at her reassuringly. Wanted to tell her that this witch had no power over the unwilling, that Emma could not help him lest they both fall victim to her tricks. That was the point of her question, to see the full scope of her dominion, the reason she had invited them both to drink. He couldn't speak however, not with the witch right there. 

 

“The question of your future is mine to see. The answer a gift to give,” Baba Yaga said. She picked the cup up again and peered inside, gnarled fingers twisting it back and forth in her grasp. What she saw there was a mystery, her face giving nothing away.

 

“Take it, with my compliments,” Killian swallowed as best he could, the bitter herbs caught in his throat. His mind was swimming as his vision snapped in and out of focus.

 

_ Drugged surely.  _ He thought.  _ Poisoned probably.  _

 

“Killian,” Emma grabbed his arm as he swayed. He could barely feel the warmth of her through his coat, could barely make out the pressure of her fingers. Not the best of signs.

 

“Are you okay?” It was a firm question, all the words she wasn't saying written in her eyes.  _ We can go _ .  _ You don't have to do anything else. We can run.  _ He appreciated it, and just smiled at her again, a sappy ridiculous thing he was sure, but his vision was growing even dimmer. 

 

“What the hell did you do to him?” 

 

Far away at the end of a long tunnel he saw Emma rise from her stool, his hand lifting weakly, trying to grab her, but falling leaden and useless to his side as words of warning caught on a tongue that was too thick and heavy to speak. 

 

“By his own will,” the woman reminded her. 

 

Whatever Emma replied was lost to the sounds of his pulse in his ears, whatever she did too far away and dark to see anymore.

 

_____

 

He blinked awake to a familiar cabin, cramped and dirty, smelling of salt and fish and rotting wood. The ropes of ancient hammocks swung in time to the rocking of a ship long since lost to the sea. A dingy blanket of burlap and unraveling wool on one of them was the only personal effect in sight. It was a spartan and coldly familiar place. He had slept in that hammock, curled under that blanket into Liam’s side night after night, crying himself to sleep until it became apparent that tears weren't going to bring their father back, that their new masters would be no less cruel, and it looked no different now than it had centuries before. 

 

“My gifts are not without price,” Baba Yaga said, and he turned to face her pushing down the startled leap in his chest to give her a cool stare. Childhood fears would have to wait. 

 

“I don't need ‘gifts’ just one item, the horn of-” she cut him off, holding up an impatient hand.

 

“We both know that is not all you seek  _ Captain _ ,” her accent twisted the word, her eyes shining with mirth. He pushed down the surprise that she knew who he was as well, merely raising an eyebrow.

 

“Oh? And what is that? Do, please enlighten me,” he waved a lazy open palm towards her and leaned back, trying not to appear as unsettled by their surroundings as he was. He was barely resisting the urge to pick up the blanket and breathe in the long forgotten scent of his brother, witches and their hallucinogenic tea be damned. 

 

“If I give you the horn where do you plan to go?” She asked instead. He opened his mouth to respond but she cut him off. “Be warned and be willing Captain, for now and for then and for forever hence, in this wood the answer to questions is the gift of time, mine or yours it matters not, but the price will be paid.”

 

Killian was silent. In truth, he didn't even  _ know _ the answer. Emma’s and his course was not set as yet, they were moving from moment to moment, dealing with problems as they arose, chasing solutions with no clear endgame in sight. Maleficent did not have the answers they’d hoped for, merely a bandage for a gaping wound, and after this mission he was at a loss. So he said nothing. 

 

Baba Yaga grinned, knowing, and tilted her head.

 

“I can give you the answers you seek, the gifts you will need. You have earned the horn in deed alone already, and a question of your own if you accept, but I can give you  _ more _ .” 

 

There was nothing seductive about the hunched over form in front of him, nothing externally appealing about her sallow skin, and bony limbs, but her voice whispered over him like a lover’s caress, temptation and desire brushing against his skin. He closed his eyes and pushed it away with a small shake of his head. No good would come of deals with the devil, or from a woman worthy to be the devil’s bride.

 

“Perhaps, I will remind you of  _ your _ price,” Baba Yaga’s voice slithered across him.

 

He heard the rasp of fabric, felt the prickling electricity of magic, and a familiar scent filled his nose, over the smells of brine and unwashed men came something sweet and clean. He opened his eyes.

 

“Swan,” he breathed out. 

 

He knew, logically, this was an illusion, the old woman shifting and morphing before his very eyes told him that. Silver hair turned butter yellow, thick and curling against the gentle slope of her shoulders as she straightened and grew taller. It was Emma in form, but instead of dark moss her eyes were the cool sea glass green of the witch’s. He growled.

 

“Your parlor tricks won't work on me  _ siren _ ,” he spat. “I'll have the horn and the horn alone.” 

 

“You haven't heard my proposal,” the woman said, her accent fading to Emma’s gentler voice. 

 

“And I've no wish to,” he said. 

 

“I do not deal in wishes,” Baba Yaga said, her voice hard and suddenly her own again. She shifted, shrinking down back to the hunched over old woman, leather and suede traded for dirty rags and stained linen. He breathed a bit easier facing her as herself, even the face of Emma was enough to take him off guard, enough to make him question his resolve. “My trade is in noble deeds freely given and questions of the heart worth a year of time apiece.” 

 

“Noble.” Killian scoffed. “Afraid you have the wrong Captain then, madam.” 

 

“You drank the tea,” she reminded him gently. “Of your own will.” 

 

“To protect Emma,” he snapped. “From whatever ridiculous farce we’re playing out here. Which I very much hope will find its end soon, we’re on a bit of a schedule.”

 

She ignored his rudeness, her eyes glinting.

 

“A sacrifice for another is not noble?”

 

Killian gritted his teeth in frustration. They were getting nowhere, the rock and pitch of the ship and the smells of faded memory were making him ill, mixing with the bitter tea and hatred of these games, twisting against his insides where the ghost of a frightened little boy begged him to be cautious, reminded him she could cook him alive for his insolence. 

 

“I merely offer you a trade,” Baba Yaga said finally when he didn't answer, looking strangely disappointed. “Three gifts, three questions. You have one gift and one question already if you complete that task to its end, when the deed is satisfied you may return to claim them.”

 

“And you get what?” Killian sneered. “Trade implies parity.”

 

The woman stared at him and merely smiled, her lips remained pointedly closed.

 

Killian sighed in frustration. She had mentioned there was a price for answers, and she was well practiced in avoiding giving them it seemed. 

 

“Lay out your terms,” he said instead. Not quite a question. She seemed pleased he was catching on so quickly and nodded.

 

“Three deeds for each of my gifts and for each of my answers,” she said simply. 

 

Killian frowned. 

 

“I'm assuming one of the gifts is the horn?” he asked. Baba Yaga pursed her lips again. “A statement.” He corrected, setting his jaw in annoyance.  “Not a question.”

 

“An excellent assumption,” she smiled.

 

“For drinking the tea and accepting your game,” he did not bother to phrase this as a question either, knowing she would play this game all day, and she smiled wider, impressed.

 

“A noble deed to be sure,” she replied. 

 

Killian thought a moment, his mind whirling, trying to pick apart every moment, every odd phrase, piecing it together as best he could. He despised the round and round of riddles, impatience prickling against his nerves, but he knew they wouldn't get the horn otherwise, that he had to figure out her tricks to keep them safe and see them on their way. He sighed.

 

“But I had to do it willingly,” he mused aloud.

 

Her smile faltered a bit. 

 

“You asked one question already, and we both answered,” he said, crossing the room. “But only  _ I _ was willing then, by my own admission.” He peered up at her. “Answers are gifts, time, you said.” He licked his lips as the thoughts formed and slowly pieced themselves together. “A year. A year of time apiece.” He repeated her words, and waved a finger at her, knowing by the stony expression on her face that he was on to something. 

 

“So each deed is worth a gift, something tangible like the horn. But only from the willing,” he continued to watch her expressions carefully. “That’s why you wanted Emma to drink the tea.” 

 

Baba Yaga set her her jaw, eyes flashing, and he tried not to smile as she confirmed what he had suspected in the hovel. She had no power over Emma, and that would at least keep Emma safe no matter how this played out. 

 

“I'm assuming if one fails at the deed the gift is forfeit?” He raised an eyebrow at her but she continued to stare at him, implacable. So he continued on, the game knitting together in his mind as the words left his lips. “And every answer is a gift, a year.”  He repeated the words, realization dawning as he spoke them again.

 

“Clever Captain,” Baba Yaga praised with a smirk, yellow teeth flashing in delight as the implication of that snapped together in his mind and he looked at her with barely contained fury. 

 

“So I owe you a  _ year of my life _ for answering a bloody question?” he hissed. “That  _ is  _ a question by the way.” He glared.

 

Baba Yaga was practically grinning now at his frustration, her teeth sharp and terrifying in the dim light of the cabin.  

 

“You can earn it back,” she teased. “I will answer no more than three, as I said, one for each deed. Acceptance of my deal will grant you the first of them.” 

 

“I'm assuming you’ll try to get me to answer more as we go along, that's the way of it?” He grumbled. “And if I  _ don't _ play along I can't collect the question you owe me already.” 

 

 

She just smiled.

 

“You may take, how you say,...the gamble.” She said slowly, her eyes dancing with dark mischief. “Or, you can be on your way.” She hummed to herself for a second, considering. “I will still give you the horn and you will give me the year, but nothing more. I am not unreasonable.”

 

“I think I'll take my chance with just the horn then,” he said finally. “I'm not all that keen on learning more about meself anyway. And I've lived for centuries, I can spare one year.”

 

“The questions need not be about  _ you _ -” Baba Yaga rocked back on the stool, her smile knowing again. No longer did she wear the wicked sly grins or stony neutrality that had twisted her visage so far, but instead the happy softness of an assured victory, it made his skin crawl to see it as his heart sank. “-but about the woman you love.  _ Her _ future.  _ Her _ path.” 

 

Killian swallowed. She had already seen the truth of their situation. They had no plan after this. Obtain the horn, return it to Maleficent in exchange for more of that vile potion, and then...what? The potion would buy them time but not knowledge. It was also one thing to fall into a trap blind and unknowing, it was quite another to walk into it freely.  _ Noble _ , Baba Yaga had said, the word now full of dark trickery and ill purpose. To continue on for Emma’s sake would certainly be noble, after all the cost would be only his to pay if he failed. In those terms it didn't seem like so much of a gamble after all. They had what they had come for in hand already, if he could possibly win the knowledge they needed to save her he had no choice but to take that risk. 

 

“Alright,” he said.

 

When Baba Yaga looked at him again it was a predatory thing, the seaglass green of her eyes now practically black with hunger and greed. Killian swallowed around the sharp anxiety in his throat, the feeling that he was making a mistake. He was already down one year of his worthless existence, but she had offered up three of her own, those odds were better than some he had faced before.

 

Baba Yaga reached beneath the grimy kerchief that covered her silver hair, and pulled from beneath it a single strand. 

 

“The second of your deeds, either an absolution in frozen time or a way forward,” she said holding it out to him.  “This must be tied into three knots and then blown upon like the whistling wind.”  She pursed her lips and blew.

 

Killian took the hair and looked at it. It glinted in the sparse light, drooping along his knuckles. It looked ordinary otherwise, a simple thread of regular hair. He glanced back up at Baba Yaga but she sat there, poised and serene, waiting for him to carry out her odd little task. 

 

It was undoubtedly a trick, he knew without even attempting to ask that should he complete the mission something terrible would probably be inflicted upon his person. That's how these things worked. In story and in life there was always a caveat and he was without the means to question her further and find it out. He frowned at the little hair, considering, trying to remember the tales of his youth, the memories too far away to grasp. 

 

“Perhaps you should demonstrate what you mean,” he said after a moment, holding the hair out for her to take. “I’m all thumbs when it comes to these things.” He held up his wooden hand apologetically and turned it, smiling innocently.

 

“One would think the Captain of a ship would know his way around a series of simple knots,” Baba Yaga replied taking it from him nonetheless.

 

“I won't tell if you won't,” he smirked. Baba Yaga didn't look angry though as she took it from him, to the contrary she looked almost pleased, her worn fingers moving over the thread quickly with a nimbleness that belied her age, tying it into three minuscule knots. 

 

“Show me the bit with the blowing again too,” Killian said, still all innocent politeness. “I've forgotten.” 

 

“Careful,” Baba Yaga warned. “Your clever mind and fairy looks get you much, but arrogance is deadly, Captain.” Despite this she pursed her lips again, blowing cool air over the knotted strand.

 

Almost at once it glowed with silver light, spreading across her wrinkled hand, up her arm, covering her in a soft ethereal glow. Killian stepped back in mute surprise as her body froze, as it became entombed in smooth granite that trickled over her like gentle water, flowing in the wake of the light. A statue.

 

Killian gaped at her, at a loss. As far as victories were concerned this was a new one for him. Though he doubted the witch could collect the year he owed as a piece of statuary, so it was at least a fortunate outcome, and perhaps they could still find the horn among her things when he returned. He looked around at the creaking ship, waiting for the vision to fade, for the run down hovel to appear and Emma’s worried face to stare down at him. 

 

The ship rocked again and sighed around him. He frowned.

 

The statue creaked along with it, splintered and cracked, small fissures opening along her cheeks and neck. The silver light poured forth again, and the stone crumbled away to dust, disappearing on unseen wind. Baba Yaga smiled at him. 

 

“You did not think my own spell would hold me?” She said with a mocking laugh. Killian pursed his lips in annoyance, but knew better than to answer. 

 

“The deed, nevertheless,  _ was _ completed. I believe I am owed a forfeit. And a question,” he snapped, impatient. “And don't think I've forgotten you owe me a question for that foul tea and accepting this farce, madam, and the horn as well.” 

 

“Indeed my boy, I will not forget. That is for when we return, not before, ” her tone was a dark warning, but she reached into her sleeve, and pulled out a single feather. “This is your reward for now.” It was a watercolor of reds, yellows and orange, shining in the light like flickering flames, from the tail of a large bird based on its size and shape. She held it out to him.

 

“Time is a tricky business. To give this to you, I must give this to you. On and on we go, round and round.” Baba Yaga laughed to herself. 

 

Killian hesitated a moment, raising a suspicious and confused eyebrow at the mad woman before he took the gift.

 

“A feather,” he said dully, unimpressed. He turned it in his fingers. “I suppose it will make for a handsome quill.” He offered, at a loss for what other purpose it could possibly serve.

 

“Foolish man,” Baba Yaga snapped, her laughter fading as quickly as it had come. “That is the feather of the Firebird. A powerful ally when one has need of one.” 

 

“My thanks then, milady,” Killian bowed a bit in deference, disconcerted by her sudden anger, and placed the feather carefully in his satchel. He was unsure if it would still be there when they returned to reality, or what use a bird could be, but he was  unwilling to waste his question to ask, nor did he want to anger her any further, he was already pushing the boundaries of politeness. 

 

“You may ask your question, but consider it carefully against its worth,” Baba Yaga sat, calming and settling into a stool at the side of the room. She arranged her ragged dress and cloak around her withered form and waited. 

 

It was a moment before he asked the question that had been burning him from the inside since all this began, since Zelena had confronted him by the carriage, or perhaps even earlier on the doorstep of the woman he loved, in a strange city, the ghost of her lips mingling with the crushing disappointment that his kiss had failed, that she still didn't remember, that he wasn't the one. 

 

“Where can we find the person with the means to break Emma’s curse? Her-” Killian swallowed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth, gravel in his throat. “-true love.”

 

Baba Yaga’s eyes burned into him, burned  _ through _ him. He could feel the heat of them as sharp and hot as the midday sun. Her face was expressionless as she weighed the answer but those eyes glinted with something unidentifiable.

 

“There is a man, her true love, within half a day’s climb of my Red Sun. He is somewhere between here and there,” she said finally. 

 

Killian’s knees felt like water, his heart a leaden stone in his chest as the last bit of hope he held there drained away. It was one thing to have the Wicked Witch taunt you with your worst fear, or to have the proof of it in failed kisses, but hearing it so plainly spoken, that such a man did actually exist, such a man was here and close and waiting, was another thing entirely. He couldn't even be annoyed at the cryptic answer, that the man existed was enough. Killian swallowed, his eyes stinging, and looked away. 

 

Baba Yaga sat in silence, cupping her hands serenely in her lap and waited. 

 

They were square now, the year of his life regained, the horn and this odd feather won. He could leave it here, cut his losses and go. But he needed more information, they still needed a way home, even if he was unsure of where that place was for  _ him _ , he knew where Emma belonged. He still had a duty to her, still loved her, despite the truth, as useless and wasted as that love might end up being. And while she might not love him in return, his feelings would remain unchanged, forever. He would keep his promise and get her home. He stood up straighter. 

 

“The last task,” Killian croaked after a long quiet moment. “Let's get on with it.” 

 

“Very well,” Baba Yaga tilted her head and with it the room spun. 

 

_____

 

When Killian blinked awake the second time it was in a place he did not know. Cold and damp and silent, he squinted against the dim light of torches hung on the wall and took in his new surroundings. It was a crypt of some sort, or a mausoleum, the final resting places of the dead carved into the walls with open shallow caverns where bones and bodies were laid to rest. The floor was covered in them, broken skulls and limbs mixing with rocks and dirt. He shuddered against his will and backed away, his boots sliding against the macabre debris. 

 

“What are we doing here?” He tried to keep his voice level, nonchalant, but it tremored faintly anyway. 

 

Baba Yaga stepped out of the shadows. 

 

“Which one is your Emma?” She asked without preamble.

 

“What?” Killian gasped out. He whirled back to the wall of graves, his heart thundering. It couldn't be, she couldn't be. 

 

“Which one is  _ your _ Emma?” Baba Yaga repeated.

 

She reached out and grabbed a torch from its place on the wall, holding it aloft to cast light across the shallow caves carved into the face of it.

 

Nine heads of identical golden hair shone in the light, all of them dressed just as Emma had been, the suede pants, the soft leather jerkin, the heels of her sturdy borrowed boots. They all lay there serene, peaceful, nine pairs of small delicate hands clasped across nine stomachs. Killian wanted to scream seeing them there, all of them looking like Emma, like her body, tucked away on identical stone beds in the repose of death, not one of them different than any other. It was a nightmare come to life, seeing the woman he loved dead and in this place, even worse to have the image repeated, over and over again. 

 

He shut his eyes against it. Shook his head in denial, his throat filling with tears and terror in equal measure. It was like being ripped open, a cold hand reaching into his chest and squeezing. He could barely breathe with the weight of it.

 

“You didn't-” he gasped out and shook his head again. “Not her. It’s not her. None of them are her.” The weight of her question pressed against his denials, his Emma was among them she had said. HIS Emma was laying there as dead as all the other unfortunate souls that covered the floor. She was Bone Mother, she struck down the unworthy, she burned them in her oven or killed them with her tricks and now his Emma was lying in one of these graves.

 

“Do you wish to know the truth?” Baba Yaga asked curiously. 

 

“Yes,” he answered before he could think, needing to know. He was too desperate to curse himself for being so careless, too anguished to care.

 

“None of those you see before you are the Emma of the flesh but one of them is the Emma of your heart. She is safe. Now. Which Emma is  _ your _ Emma?” She repeated, her voice emotionless. 

 

Killian almost staggered with relief at the words. It wasn't real. None of this was real. Emma was safe somewhere outside of this nightmare, she was alive and well. This was an illusion, a dream just as the ship had been. His eyes snapped open in realization.

 

“If I answer to pass the test, I give another year,” he turned on her accusingly. “Either way I lose,  _ again _ .” 

 

Baba Yaga shrugged, indifferent, almost lazy, the flame of the torch in her grip bobbing with the action. 

 

“There is no rule against it,” she pointed out. “You did not set those terms.” 

 

“I thought it was bloody obvious you cheating-” Killian had to clench his fist to keep from striking out at the woman, anger hot and stifling overriding all his fear and relief. 

 

“The deed remains the deed. Fail it and forfeit. Win and you lose nothing and gain my gifts,” she said. “Now. Enough. Which Emma is your Emma?”

 

Killian closed his eyes again, nails digging into his palm. He wanted to rip her throat out, frustration and rage sweeping over him in a dark tide. She was right though. He hadn't specified, he should have known. He was a fool to think he could win this outright, a fool to think the deck was not stacked against him from the start. 

 

He had to win. He needed the answers. Needed to get back to Emma, get away from this foul creature and her games, needed to get them home. The year of his life didn't matter, but if he won they would be even, three questions apiece, three answers each. He didn't care to have a year of the witch’s life, he just wanted it to end. 

 

He took a deep steadying breath and stepped towards the wall.

 

Each of them were identical as far as he could see, down to the smallest detail. All beautiful, all Emma. The slope of her nose, the tiny indent of her chin, the soft luster of her hair. He took another breath and stepped closer. 

 

He couldn't smell her. The air of the crypt was foul with decay and the musty scent of ancient things. Nor could he look in her eyes and  _ know.  _ If he could see their eyes he had no doubt he could see the truth in them. 

 

Killian closed his own, trying to think. She had said it was the Emma of his heart. 

 

“Whatever that bloody means,” he muttered to himself. He tried to focus, to feel  _ something _ , anything, some hint or sign. There was no magical pull, no internal sixth sense, no guiding light to show him the way. His body was utterly silent, just the harshness of his even angry breaths, overly loud in the silence of the crypt, and the thundering of the blood in his ears. 

 

Killian was familiar with following his heart.  As black as it was at times he had let it guide him, had rarely questioned it, or the path it had taken him on. Not until the day it was pulled in opposing directions, one leading to vengeance, the other to a small fierce woman and her improbable family had he even paid it any mind. He had always just trusted it to guide him, from shore to shore, one foot in front of the other. Nothing changed now. He supposed it didn't matter anyway, the Emma of his heart was whichever Emma he chose. Or at least he hoped that was the way of it.

 

He stepped forward at random and reached out to the one in the center. His hand brushed the silk skin of her cheek, still warm even in the chill of the tomb. His fingers traced down, and pressed against the smooth curve of her lips, thumbed at the hollow of her chin. 

 

“This one,” he said hoarsely, his eyes still closed, knowing it was true before he spoke the words aloud. “This is my Emma.” 

 

“Your gift, Captain,” Baba Yaga said softly. He turned to face her. She looked kinder in the torchlight, sympathetic even. It did nothing to quiet his anger, or the remnants of fear and sadness at war within him. She smiled at him softly and held out a small green bottle. 

 

He looked at her in question, but didn't ask it, knowing it was pointless anyway. 

 

“Memory potion,” she said as he took it, the glass cold in his hand. “To help when needed, as the feather is.” 

 

“Suppose that could be useful,” he acknowledged stiffly, putting it into his satchel with the feather. “In case our disguises fail us.” 

 

“Or if one just needed to forget,” she said slyly. Killian clenched his teeth. “It has many purposes for many things my boy. Now, your question, if it pleases you.”

 

Killian hesitated, his gaze flickering to the Emma he had chosen,  _ his _ Emma according to the test. He should ask for the way home, for more information on the True Love that awaited her somewhere in this time, in this realm, apparently near enough to require less than half a day's ride. He had one more question though when they returned, when he collected Emma and the horn, and so he asked the only question he could, the only answer that he truly needed. The answer he needed to go forward. 

 

“Will she be happy,” his voice was soft and rasping, echoing off the walls of the crypt. “Will Emma be happy?”

 

Again, Baba Yaga looked at him as if she could see into his soul. The soft smile pulling her lips across her yellow teeth once more.

 

“Noble,” she murmured quietly. “I told you, Captain.” 

 

“Answer the question,” he bit out. 

 

“On the day that potion is used-” Baba Yaga said motioning towards his bag. “-she will be happier than she has ever been.” 

 

The strap of the satchel around his shoulder suddenly felt impossibly heavy, digging into his flesh through the fabric of clothing. 

 

“Used on who?” He asked. Baba Yaga just looked at him, expressionless and he ground his teeth in frustration.

 

“Is this your final question?” She smirked. Killian didn't answer. He couldn't use the last question on that, he had to know how to get them back. He clenched his teeth harder.

 

“Take us back, witch,” he snapped instead. “So we can get the horn, ask my question, and be on our way.” 

 

“Very well,” Baba Yaga tilted her head again, and the room spun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter Eight

Killian, in his long and dangerous life, on sea and shore in realms of unimaginably dangerous magic, was almost accustomed to the feeling of drowning. The all encompassing pressure, the buoyant ebb and flow as control was seized from his grasp, the clawing ache in his chest as the world pressed unyieldingly down around him. It was strangely comforting in its cold familiarity and he embraced it now. He relaxed into it, let the current take him, and opened his eyes to vibrant summer green.

 

“Killian,” Emma whispered.

 

Her fingers pressed harder into his cheek, in relief or possibly annoyance. He licked his lips, tasting the lingering bitter herbs there and took in a shuddering breath. 

 

“Swan.” 

 

Emma alive and well, warm and whole, not entombed in a dark mausoleum, not laying in a deathly repose over and over again. Just Emma, the real Emma of flesh and blood, weary and worried, kneeling by his side, pressing her palm into his cheek. He drank in the sight of her with anxious relief, committed her to memory, burned her into his mind. He had been in this position before, this time without the lingering hint of her taste on his lips. The day she had lost her magic, for him, the start of this entire torturous excursion. But her eyes were the same, brilliant and bright and worried above him. 

 

Baba Yaga shuffled in her chair, stood up on creaking bones and the rustle of fabric with grunting effort. 

 

Killian swallowed and looked away, leaning up on elbows from his position on floor. Emma’s hand dropped, drifted down stubble, and she stood, whirling on the ancient crone now moving about the hut. 

 

“What the hell was that?” Emma demanded. 

 

Baba Yaga ignored her. She reached into a cupboard above the stove, glass clinking.

 

“Time is short,” the witch said. “The potion in your veins thins and fades.”

 

“What happened?” Emma turned instead to Killian who was rising to his feet. “You both just stopped moving and I thought-“ she bit the sentence off. Baba Yaga glared at the question, curling her lip in distaste. She looked to Killian. 

 

“Questions have been asked and answered, truths revealed,” Baba Yaga said. “And now payment on all sides must be given. Come.”

 

The house shuddered around them, creaked and groaned as the creature below it moved. Killian’s stomach swooped as they were lowered once again to the ground, the room trembling.

 

Emma’s questioning stare seared into him, but he couldn’t make himself form the words. No words were sufficient to explain what had happened. The image of her dead over and over again. The breaking of his heart as fate promised her to another. He merely grunted and shifted his shoulders in a shrug, grateful that Baba Yaga was moving towards the door, beckoning them impatiently to follow. 

 

She drew them across the dirt and scrub of the hut’s barren yard to the garden beyond. It was lush and green, overflowing with life, in direct contrast to the fence of bones and skulls that contained it and the red and white sameness of the forest beyond. The leaves and stalks of the plants shivered and shuddered with an unfelt breeze as they passed, rattling and shaking against each other, casting droplets of water to the ground. Bright sun cut through the gray and dreary clouds making the water sparkle and shimmer. 

 

“We must leave a gift,” Baba Yaga murmured. “An offering.” 

 

“To who?” Emma asked. Baba Yaga glared at her again, ignoring the question to stoop low to the ground.

 

She reached into the endless folds of rags and ruined cloth, and withdrew a small clay plate, laying it down at the edge of the whispering leaves. Next came a small bottle of amber liquid, thick and viscous. She poured it onto the plate.

 

“A gift from Aphrodite,” she murmured to no one in particular. “Beautiful creatures deserve beautiful things.” 

 

Emma looked to Killian bewildered, but he was looking skyward, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had a headache looming, no doubt a side effect of that bitter brew, and his patience with tricksy sorceresses and forest witches was wearing thin.

 

“We wait,” Baba Yaga said, her accent thick as she shuffled backwards from their offering, head tilted to listen. 

 

“Hopefully not too long, aye? We’re on a  _ bit _ of a schedule. Potions thinning, curses looming, that kind of thing,” Killian snapped. Emma blinked at him in surprise at his tone, wondering what the hell happened to “etiquette being rather fraught in these situations”. Baba Yaga, however, laughed, a grating wheezing sound in the silence of the clearing.

 

“You speak of time like you know it,” Baba Yaga chortled. “If not for this waiting you would not  _ be here _ to wait, Captain.” Her eyes slid across Emma, glowing with mirth. “This blink of Time has given you more than you know. Without this you would not have half so much.” 

 

Killian didn’t respond, just rolled his eyes heavenward as if praying for patience. He dropped the hand rubbing his nose and leaned back. He was spared further response by a rustling in the woods behind the garden, the slide of leaves against each other, the snapping of branches.

 

Emma and Killian both tensed, wary.

 

From the leaves emerged a small black creature, a dwarven pony with bright shining eyes and a sleek midnight coat. Emma’s eyes widened in disbelieving delight as it stepped towards them, a small pink tongue dipping down to lap delicately at the honey on the plate.

 

“The horn of a black unicorn,” Baba Yaga said satisfied. She reached a gnarled hand out to stroke the animal just beneath its namesake horn, clucking at it softly.

 

“Just one problem,” Killian said. “It appears it’s still...attached.” 

 

Emma looked between the adorable creature and Killian in horror.

 

“Easy child,” Baba Yaga chuckled reading her expression. “I would not bring a curse down upon my own head by slaying the beast.” She reached into the folds of her clothing again and drew out a shining silver length of rope. “The horn can be used where it is.”

 

“A gift earned,” she nodded to Killian. “Payment for your deeds and truths. You have one more question earned as well.”

 

Killian didn’t look at Emma who was regarding the pair, still confused. The answers to his previous questions were not knowledge he wished to have. The shadows of phantom men, true loves more worthy than he, darted across his mind and he purposefully avoided looking at her. 

 

“How do we get home?” He asked finally.

 

Baba Yaga nodded as if satisfied, as if she had expected such a question.

 

“When you return to the start you will find the way home,” she said. Killian huffed. 

 

“Wonderful. Delightfully cryptic and not useful in the least. How utterly surprising,” he sneered. Emma shot him a warning glance. Baba Yaga just smiled at him.

 

“I have given the answers you need,” she moved back to the unicorn. “And given you the gifts you earned.”

  
  


Killian eyed the creature warily as Baba Yaga looped the rope around its neck. It was a docile thing, happily licking up the last vestiges of sticky residue from the plate, but that didn’t make Killian any happier to be its keeper.

 

“So we just take him..her..I dunno, back to Maleficent?” Emma asked, her eyes wide with wonder and still focused on the unicorn. Her fingers twitched as if she wanted to touch it.

 

“Bloody hell,” Killian scrubbed a hand across his face in exasperation. “How many beasts are we going to collect during this infernal trip?”

 

“This one is so cute though,” Emma said softly finally gathering up the courage to stroke a hand down warm downy fur. 

 

“The key to your past and to your future,” Baba Yaga said. She gave one last satisfied pat on the pony’s head before shuffling away. “Now, for  _ my  _ payment, Captain.” 

 

Killian jerked his attention away from a charmed Swan back to the old hag. 

 

“What?” He glared. “I think you’ll remember payment has already been rendered in full  _ madam _ .” 

 

“One year you owe me,” Baba Yaga’s voice was hard. “One year for an answered question.” Emma’s hand dropped away from the unicorn, looking to Killian.

 

“No,” Killian said slowly. “Those debts were squared. We are even.” 

 

Baba Yaga smiled, all teeth bared, her eyes glinting. 

 

“Do you come of your own will?” She trilled in a mocking hiss. “Do you wish to know the truth?” She said again. “Which Emma is your Emma?” Her eyes were green fire as she stepped towards him with every word. Fear rose in his chest, and he swallowed, willing himself to stand fast as her voice rose into the sky, booming loud and thunderous. 

 

“Three questions,” he reminded her, everything in him keeping his voice from trembling. He thought of the heaving stove, the blue heat of devil’s fire and black acrid smoke. “And you gave me three as well. We are square.” He insisted. 

 

“The  _ question _ of your future is mine to see _.”  _ Baba Yaga leered at him, her voice a sneering hiss of satisfaction. “Remember your words Captain. Remember them.”

 

Behind her Emma stepped away from the unicorn towards him, afraid and confused. 

 

“Killian-“, she started.

 

“Remember. Your. Words.  _ Captain,”  _ a flock of birds flew from the treetops in terror, cawing a warning into the sky as her voice boomed through the woods. Killian’s mouth was dry, he swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat of horrifying realization.

 

“I said,‘Take it,” he rasped, his eyes locked with Emma’s. “With my compliments.’” He repeated the careless words spoken over bitter tea, their import unknown at the time, and his gaze slid from her face to the ground as his chest filled with ice.

 

“With your compliments,” Baba Yaga singsonged, her teeth sharp and gleaming, as she continued to grin. 

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Emma snapped. She stepped between them. “What happened in there? Take what?”

 

“Speak a question again, little swan, and your will will no longer be your own,” Baba Yaga’s warning was pleasantly spoken but her stare was green fire. 

 

“We struck a bargain,” Killian said, his voice sounding far away to his ears. “It seems I was rather careless on the specifics.” 

 

“Well screw that,” Emma spat, whirling on the witch. “Keep your black unicorn, he’s cute but we’ll find another way. Thanks for the tea. Come on Killian.” 

 

Emma reached out to grab his arm, her fingers barely grasping the quilted fabric before she was wrenched backwards by invisible hands, her arms locked to her sides with a painful snap and wrench. 

 

“You forget yourself,” Baba Yaga continued to speak in that same lilting pleasantness, shuffling around them in a wide circle, her rags brushing against the leaves and flowers of the garden. “I can offer you a way to remember your manners, child.” Emma struggled against the binding, her face twisted in rage.

 

“Don’t,” Killian stepped forward, his words quick and desperate. “The error was my own. I’ll pay your price.” 

 

“No,” Emma couldn’t look at him but her pleading tone cut into him. “No more prices. No more debts. We can find another way.” 

 

Killian shook his head as he stepped around into her line of vision. 

 

“We don’t have time for that,” he said. “Take it.” He told the witch and Baba Yaga smiled wider. He was unsure of what would happen, of what he would feel, what the loss of a year could do to a man. He could only square his shoulders and face her head on, trying to keep his breathing even.

 

From the sleeves of her rags Baba Yaga drew forth two glass vials, dusty and mottled by age, stoppard by brown cork. She used her long brittle nails to pry the corks free and stepped towards Killian. Emma bucked against invisible restraints. She strained towards him as the woman moved closer. 

 

“The passage of time is marked by tears and laughter. We make use of two. One for me,” the witch darted forward quick as a snake and blew foul hot breath into Killian’s face. “And one for you.”

 

His eyes watered immediately, as soon as her lilting rhyming words were finished, and two tears, one from each of his eyes trailed unchecked down his cheeks. It hurt, but not in the way a knife would cut or a blow would sting, but more visceral, deeper. The loss of a brother, a mother, a love, keen and harsh and then the pain was gone as quickly as the feeling had come. Baba Yaga held up the vials, collected one tear and then the other in both, and had them corked and put away before Emma could so much as cry out. 

 

“You have been most noble Captain,” the witch said, her voice low in his ear, a grating whisper. “And for that I shall give you one more gift.” Killian tensed, something like fear and anticipation forming a knot in his gut as he waited for her to speak. “The true love you seek-“ she rasped, her voice like tiny needles pricked against his skin. “Is already known to her.” 

 

The witch stepped back and stared at him levelly, her eyes twinkling.

 

“Now leave this place and bother me no more,” she waved a gnarled hand and Emma fell forward, barely catching herself to avoid a meeting with the ground.

 

“Though I suspect-,” Baba Yaga gave them one last perusing look. “-our paths shall cross again.” 

 

Killian and Emma watched as the hag shuffled away with slow tottering steps, the house creaking and straining as it lowered itself to receive her. Neither of them dared to speak, dared to move. Next to them the unicorn stirred, snorting out a long breath. The house rose back into the air, smoke puffing from the chimney in short black bursts. And then, from one blink to the next the clearing evaporated in wisps of smoke and disappeared from view around them. The garden turned to wood and red leaves, and the house became nothing more than air. 

 

Killian closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Then he turned, marching to the unicorn and picked up the length of silver rope. 

 

“Are you going to explain  _ any _ of that?” Emma asked, incredulous. 

 

Killian started walking forward, the unicorn trailing dutifully after.

 

“Aye,” he affirmed and finally looked back at her. “Later, I’ll explain everything.” 

 

They stared at each other. Emma didn’t protest as he’d thought she might, nor did she press him. Her eyes merely scanned his face for a moment, and seeing something there he could not guess she nodded and stepped forward after him. 

 

The trek back to the Forbidden Fortress was made in silence.

  
  


_____

 

Maleficent sat resplendent and languorous in blue and black silks, puffed and ruched to within an inch of her life. Emma wondered how long she had waited for them, looking just like this: ridiculously regal and affectedly bored. Despite the tableau her eyes glittered with curiosity as they made a loud tromping entrance into the throne room. The small black unicorn came in hesitantly after them, hooves sliding across stone, disliking the differing terrain. The rope grew taut as the animal reared back, nostrils flaring.

 

“Oh,” Maleficent breathed as it came into the room, an awed whisper of a word. She leaned forward in her throne, her hands gripping the edge of the arms.

 

“What a  _ magnificent  _ creature,” she murmured to herself. Her eyes were only for the unicorn, who tossed its mane of silky black hair and snorted. The flickering torches cast shimmers of fire across the sheen of its coat, and its hooves clacked against the stone as it stepped further into the room.

 

Maleficent stood slowly, and walked towards it, a trembling hand outstretched.

 

“How have you done this?” She asked them in disbelief, not looking at them. She did not appear to need her question answered. “Oh, you darling creature.” 

 

Killian dropped the silver lead and stepped awkwardly away from the enraptured woman. Maleficent ignored him. She reached out her hand and ran it down the neck of the unicorn closing her eyes. The animal quieted, and rubbed its nose into her palm.

 

“Yeah, it’s pretty cute,” Emma agreed. She exchanged a glance with Killian. 

 

“Cute?” Maleficent sneered the word. “This creature is divinity itself. It’s power is unimaginable.”

 

Emma eyed the squat little horse dubiously, with its too large head and its searching nose, looking for apples or sugar. She had seen similar animals at State Fairs, saddled and giving rides to screaming over excited children, plodding in endless loops around tiny straw laden rings.

 

“I dunno how divine it is,” Killian said with a skeptical click of his tongue. He sounded every bit the pirate again as he leaned back, hand on his belt, and regarded Maleficent. “But I do know that we delivered it as ordered.” He released the belt and held out his hand. “May we conclude our business? The potion-“ he waved the hand and bowed, mocking. “-if you please.” 

 

Emma waited with held breath as Maleficent snapped her gaze to him. She flashed an overly pleasant smile, sickly sweet, and nodded. She gave the unicorn one final stroke, her fingers burying themselves in the soft fur. 

 

“Of course,” she said. 

 

Maleficent took up the silver rope, and with soft soothing noises and gentle steps led the unicorn across the room, to a vanity laden with an array of bottles and vials of colored shining glass, all shapes and sizes. Killian narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

 

“I was feeling optimistic so I began the preparations while you were gone,” Maleficent said, reaching out to pluck a violet, heart shaped flask from the group. “It was just missing that final touch.” She pulled out a drawer and withdrew a drew a shining rectangle of metal, a file, and cooed at the unicorn. “This won’t hurt a bit baby.” 

 

She held the purple glass at the correct position, the file at the other, and with gentle strokes against the horn sent a stream of fine powder into the bottle of potion. It smoked and steamed for a moment, the bottle glowing bright. The unicorn whinnied and stamped at the light and the eerie whine that that it emitted. The glow faded and then all was silent.

 

“Is it done?” Killian asked gruffly.

 

“We did have a bargain,” Maleficent set down the metal file, and gave the unicorn one final appreciative stroke.

 

“Let’s have it then,” Killian said.

 

Maleficent narrowed her eyes, unused to being spoken to in such a manner, but complied without comment, holding the bottle out to Emma. 

 

“Just a drop, whenever you feel the exhaustion coming on,” Maleficent warned as Emma took it. “You will need a dose sooner and sooner in greater amounts. This won’t last forever, girl.” 

 

“How long?” Killian asked. Emma clutched the flask in her hand,  already aching for more. She could no longer tell the difference between the twinges and pains of a long journey and those of the curse. She could no longer decipher what was tiredness validly earned and tiredness brought on by magic. Perhaps it was all the same. She clutched the bottle closer to her chest and backed away from the witch towards Killian. She would wait she decided, the hunger for that drop of relief protesting loudly. She shook the thought away. She would make it last, give them more time. 

 

Emma thrust the bottle out to Killian when she reached him like it burned her. He took it with a curious look, but said nothing, putting it in his satchel. 

 

“Shall we go?” He asked her. Emma nodded, glancing warily at Maleficent who watched the two of them, her hand idly stroking her new companion. 

 

“Well there is just...one more  _ little _ thing,” Maleficent said slowly, her mouth tilting into a smirk. 

 

Killian raised a questioning eyebrow. With dawning dread Emma watched as Maleficent reached over and plucked a single roll of parchment off the vanity, ceasing her stroking of the unicorn to unfurl it before their eyes. A familiar image, the hawk like nose, the same scrawl of words. It was the poster from the road. 

 

“I do believe I owe Regina a birthday gift,” Maleficent said. There was a rhythmic clunking from the hall beyond, a heartbeat of metal on metal. It took a moment for Emma to realize what the noise was. Armor. Boots. 

 

“Don’t do this,” Emma said. Beside her Killian drew his sword, turning around to face the noise.

 

A stream of Black Knights flowed into the throne room through the gaping doors.

 

Emma grabbed onto Killian’s arm and yanked him back from the door. Maleficent cackled in delight as the knights took positions, filing in and lining up into an impenetrable wall of man and armor, swords and pikes drawn. 

 

His sword already out, Killian followed Emma’s lead. With slow and cautious steps they backed away from the men. They moved across the room at an angle, keeping both problems, Maleficent and Regina’s mindless henchmen, in their sight.

 

Emma swallowed, her hands clenching into ready fists. If ever there was a time where her magic would have been useful this would have been it. 

 

“What do we do?” Emma asked instead in a hiss. Killian looked wild eyed and unsure, but his gaze never wavered nor did his sword. 

 

“My bag,” he said in a low tone. “There’s a feather.” 

 

Emma felt herself mouthing the word “What?” Even as she stepped into him, her shaking hands moving quickly to open the leather flap.

 

“Do you want me to put a bow on them?” Maleficent snapped, moving protectively in front of the unicorn.

 

At her words a Black Knight charged towards Killian, his sword drawn. 

 

In Killian’s bag Emma’s hand closed around something that felt vaguely feathery, like a straw wrapped in wool, though what it was doing there she couldn’t say. She barely had time to grab it before the bag was torn away, Killian meeting the attack head on. Metal crashed as the two swords hit. Emma looked down at the object clutched in her hand, bewildered.

 

It was exactly what he’d said. A feather. A pretty feather, a fiery mix of blended red and oranges, exotic and soft, but still just a feather. Emma felt anxiety rise in her chest as the rest of the Black Knights followed their comrade and came forward spilling into the room. The feather moved in her palm, twitched against her skin, and then burst into flame.

 

Emma shrieked in surprise and jumped back, heat flashing against her palm for the briefest instant until the fire went out as suddenly as it had appeared. A small dusting of gray ash, still warm, was left behind. Emma stared at it in shock, barely ducking a blow from a swinging sword, the ash falling to the stone floor.

 

Killian had faltered at the sound of her shriek, his attention torn for the briefest moment, enough for the Knight he was fighting to gain ground. The next arc of the blade had him down on one knee to block it. He sucked in a fortifying breath just as Emma held hers, her heart leaping into her throat in fear. He grunted and heaved forward, pushing the man off. 

 

“It disappeared!” Emma cried out to him, relieved he was okay but desperate for a solution as another Knight charged him. She just barely dodged an attack from a different Knight herself, putting Maleficent’s stone throne between them to keep him at bay. 

 

“It what?” Killian called back in disbelief. His arm swung, catching his Knight across the face with a solid thwap of wood against flesh. His gloved prosthetic connected solid and sure. He barely had time to breathe before another Knight roused his courage and came at him. They judged him the more formidable foe, the one to dispatch quickly, and rightly so. Emma could only dart across the room trying to figure out their escape, her thoughts sluggish and her limbs heavy. She should have taken the potion when she’d had the chance. 

 

“It disappeared,” Emma yelled again, frustrated. She pulled an iron candelabra down between herself and a Knight, shoving the heavy metal stand at him, and scrambled away. 

 

As she ran she could hear the crash of metal, and with each stroke Killian’s huffing angry words. 

 

“Lying. Swindling. Charlatan.” With the last word he brought the pommel of the sword down hard on the back of his foe’s head and the man collapsed, unconscious, the metal of his helmet dented in at the back. 

 

They were doing better than they should, Emma noted with satisfaction as she drew her own sword, sending the metal basket straight into the face of her pursuer who was too shocked at her sudden about face to block her. Bone crunched under metal as his helmet caved inward as well, at the nose, and the Knight cried out in pain. 

 

Maleficent appeared to be thinking along similar lines, frowning at the fallen men on the floor, at the man clutching his face, blood dripping onto her stone floor. Killian was breathing harder from the effort, but his strokes were sure and practiced, lifetimes of experience helping him though, and his strength didn’t seem to be wavering. They were doing too well.

 

Maleficent sighed.

 

“I guess I’ll have to wrap this present myself,” she said. Emma swallowed, trying in vain to keep one eye on the witch and the other on the man charging at her again, blood running down his chin and his face twisted in rage. 

 

Magic shimmered. Electric heat, like touching a door knob in winter, sparked over Emma’s skin. The room was still for a moment, only the sound of suddenly rushing wind as the fighting sounds fell away. The Knight’s looked away from their targets, distracted at the noise. There was a terrible creak of flesh stretched taut, the crack of bones breaking and reforming anew, and the shallow hiss of black smoke pouring forth from nothing. The smoke twisted and funneled around Maleficent’s body and then up, higher and higher, a cyclone of black growing towards the impossibly high ceiling above.

 

“I think we better go,” Emma called fearfully over to Killian, who looked up at the towering column of smoke in surprise. The Knight he had been fighting glanced at him, then back to Maleficent, cast down his weapon, and ran.

 

Killian slowly sheathed his sword, still awed. A leathery wing emerged from the smoke, and then another, stretching to fill the enormous hall from stone buttress to stone buttress. The smoke wisped away, the final curling tendrils wrapping around shimmering black scales and leathery ruffles of reptilian flesh. 

 

Maleficent roared. 

 

The castle trembled around them. Emma almost lost her footing and winced as debris shuddered loose and fell from the ceiling. The image was terrifyingly familiar. 

 

A black dragon, three stories high, not including the curving horns, blinked a glowing jade eye down at them and huffed.

 

“We  _ really  _ need to go,” Emma repeated. The remaining Black Knights scrambled away, and Killian grabbed her arm. 

 

The dragon, Maleficent, stalked towards them, each footfall shaking the ground beneath their feet. Killian could barely hold onto Emma’s arm through the tremors. Emma’s teeth rattled against one another as they backed away in terror. It was the giant’s lair all over again. The world coming apart around them, running for safety beneath the feet of fantastic creatures. 

 

Emma whirled to look behind her. They were corned, a dragon between them and the gaping door the last of the Black Knights were running out of. There was nothing behind them but stone wall, no way to escape.

 

The frills around Maleficent’s head shrank and fanned out, her tail whipping behind her, catching the bottles on the vanity and sending them crashing to the floor. The unicorn gave a little noise of fear and skittered backwards.

 

Maleficent purred an apology to the animal, and huffed again, softer this time, her tail quieting on the floor. 

 

“Charles,” Emma said in warning as Maleficent spread her wings again, her head turning back to face them. Her chest glowed yellow red as the fire built within her and her glowing green eyes narrowed. Emma braces herself. 

 

There was a shriek from above, and a great gust of wind filled the room. It was hot desert air, blowing back Emma’s cloak, and her hands clapped over her ears at the shrill caw that came with it, expecting dragon fire to singe her alive. Killian was ducking away from the horrible sound as well, wincing as he yanked her back from the heat.

 

The floor before them lit up, a burst of flame, and the cry came again. Maleficent roared in response and a creature emerged between them, in a flash of fire and smoke. The air smelled of brimstone and ash.

 

“Bloody hell,” Killian breathed out in surprise, barely audible over the crackling flames and the noises from the monsters above them. His mouth dropped open in awe and Emma turned around to see what was happening. 

 

There was a giant bird. 

 

Emma blinked. 

 

It was still there.

 

Great gusts of wind rippled with each flap of two enormous wings, tipped in feathers of red and orange fire. A great swinging tail of flame billowed out behind it, and the heat from it flushed Emma’s face. The dragon roared in anger and the bird creature shrieked again.

 

“Fawkes?” Emma said in disbelief. Killian looked at her in shock.

 

“You know this bird?” He asked, incredulous. 

 

“No, it’s from-“ but there was no time to explain as Maleficent and the Phoenix met in a cacophony of noise and inferno in front of them. 

 

“Later,” Killian said somewhere near her ear.

 

Emma glanced to the door but one of Maleficent's great claws was in front of it and a steam of dragon fire blocked the path around. She looked at Killian in desperation. There was a beat, two, as they both helplessly took in the chaos, trying to find a way out. Killian grabbed her hand. 

 

Then he was pulling her across the room, their feet flying over the stone. 

 

“What are you-“ but Emma didn’t have time to give voice to the question. Killian’s hand jerked her into his chest, his arms encircled her, an awkward half hug as he pulled her close. He was covering her and clasping her to him in one movement, but for what she didn’t know. Before she could protest they were moving. His shoulder struck the ornate glass a moment later, gold and lavender shards bursting into sparkling dust in the sun as they busted through the stained glass window.

 

The image of the bird creature and Maleficent locked in battle, the whipping tail of fire and a frightened unicorn disappeared from view. Emma screamed, her voice joining Killian’s bellow of fear as they plummeted into the dark waters of the lake below. 

 

_______

 

It felt rather like running headfirst into a solid stone wall, the impact into the water shuddering up through his bones, chased by stinging needles of cold. Emma struggled in his grip, her feet kicking him in the shins. He released her, trying to get his own limbs to work as well. 

 

His eyes took in the murky water, clouded and empty, save for the blurry outline of her form, billowing blonde hair and her cloak fanning out around her. She looked like a mermaid, a sea goddess with clear green eyes, fair skin turned to porcelain white, small bubbles trailing from her nose and mouth. The cloak was pulling her down, heavy with water and her eyes were wide with fear. He saw her fingers grasping at it frantically, trying to remove it, and he shook off the whimsical notion of sea nymphs and goddesses and willed his legs to move. 

 

Killian was far more acquainted with a sudden plunge than she and he reached out calmly. Her eyes locked with his and he nodded at her once in reassurance. His hand reached out to hers, her skin like marble, smooth and cold, and gently pulled her fingers away. He was better at knots as well, he reasoned. With one tug the cord came loose and he pulled the cloak away. It was heavy in his arms but he kept it, tucking it into his elbow near his satchel. She would need it again, once they had a moment to dry and collect themselves. Emma looked no less panicked and he reached out, touched a finger to her chin and then trailed down, her shoulder, her arm, until she was calmer, until she nodded at him. It was all done in barely a moment but under the water it felt like an eternity.

 

He gently took her elbow in his grip and kicked, hard, towards the dim light of the fading sun above. 

 

They both broke the surface at around the same time, coughing and spluttering water into the chilling evening air. 

 

Emma gasped, her arms treading in rhythmic sweeps and he closed his eyes, a silent prayer to the heavens that there were all right. His teeth began chattering almost immediately with the frigid cold, his arms and legs growing numb with each passing second. 

 

“Holy shit,” Emma panted out. “Did we really just do that?” She was struggling to swim, her voice shuddering with the chill. She laughed, a shaky adrenaline fueled guffaw that echoed across the water.

 

“Aye,” Killian acknowledged with a quick smile. “But we best make for the boat and then shelter, before the cold sets in.” He saw her shaky nod, still gasping in air, and together they began to swim. He felt the pull of the water against his coat and bag, the sword heavy at his side, all of it trying to take him down into the depths, but he kept going, refusing to let exhaustion win. The boat was still moored by the secret entrance, just a ways ahead.

 

Every moment was hard won. The climb into the boat, the movement of the oars through heavy water, and finally the stashing of the vessel back in the cave. Just as they had found it. Just as he had promised. Ready for a darker version of himself to use it, a tool for his revenge. He almost wished they hadn’t. Emma sagged next to him, waterlogged and exhausted, breaking into his thoughts. He gave her a reassuring smile, soft and encouraging, and together they trudged slowly along the beach. Neither said a word. 

 

When they reached the sandy rock strewn shore of their camp Killian let himself fall into the sand to lay for a moment. Emma had a similar idea. He felt numb, and heavy, his entire body dipped in ice, but now giddiness swelled in his stomach and he laughed up into the sky. Beside him Emma giggled again.

 

“Holy shit,” she repeated.

 

“Indeed,” Killian grunted, moving back to sitting. “We best make camp. Should be safe enough here, I imagine our former hostess will be occupied for quite some time.” 

 

They both cast a look up to the fortress above, echoing shrieks and roars, the sounds of battle faintly filling the quiet of the lakeside wood. 

 

“I think David packed our old clothes,” Emma said. “Do you know how to light a fire?” 

 

Killian gave her a look and pulled himself with aching muscles back to his feet. 

 

“‘Course you do,” she murmured to herself, tugging ineffectually at her sodden clothes, pulling them away from her skin. Her lips were still blue tinged, her hair plastered to her cheeks and temples, dirt from the cave and sand from the shore sticking to her skin in intermittent patches. She was beautiful. 

 

“Come along then,” he said, snapping himself out of it. She was not his to admire. 

 

Together they made the slow, wet plod the final distance back to the wagon, and a waiting Four.

 

“Yes!” Emma said, triumphant, finding the bundle of dry clothing in their supplies. Killian draped her cloak across a tree limb to let it dry. They busied themselves with the tasks of making camp: building a fire, replenishing Four’s depleted food and water, and finally, changing out of their wet clothing. 

 

“No peeking,” Emma warned, but it was more playful, a hint of coyness as she smiled, holding the dry clothing away from herself. Killian wanted to curse the heavens. He would have given his eye teeth for just such a remark just days ago. Had given his ship to one day hear it.

 

“Gentleman,” he reminded her, forcing a sly grin and a wink. He turned himself around. The smile fell from his face as soon as his back was to her and he closed his eyes.

 

He could hear the rustle of fabric. Her breathing changing as she worked herself out of the clinging wet garments. He swallowed, clenched his teeth, and reminded himself of why they were there, what needed to be done. 

 

“Okay,” Emma said. “I’m decent.” 

 

“What a shame,” he murmured, an automatic reflex, his heart not in the flirtation at all. 

 

“You okay?” Emma asked, he still hadn’t turned around to face her.

 

“Freezing,” he said a bit more cheerfully. “May I?” He held up his own parcel of clothing. 

 

“Modesty? How surprising,” Emma teased, but she looked unsure as well, hesitant. He forced a humorless laugh and gesture with a flapping gesture of his arm for her to turn around. 

 

“Alright, alright, I’m not looking.” She said. He heard her shuffling in place.

 

It was a bit harder to change for Killian, and the air was torturous on his clammy skin but the dry cloth felt heavenly as he pulled on pants and socks. 

 

“Killian?” Emma asked, her voice unsure. He paused, the dry shirt still in his hand. 

 

“Yes?” His own voice sounded hoarse, cracking, and he cleared his throat. 

 

“Do you think we messed everything up?” Emma asked. Killian turned around.

 

“How d’you mean?” 

 

Emma turned around to face him, back in her shift dress, cast orange by the flames of the fire behind her, her body just a curving shadow within it. He averted his eyes, stared fully at her face. Her worried face.

 

“Maleficent is right this second fighting some kind of fire bird thing,” Emma reminded him. “And you gave up...something.. to some ancient witch and we aren’t any closer to getting home.” 

 

“That’s not entirely true,” he said. “And I gave nothing I wasn’t willing to give.” Across from him Emma swallowed, her eyes shining. 

 

They stood for a moment more, until Emma’s flickering gaze reminded him that he was still bare from the waist up. He took a moment to appreciate the color rising on her pale cheek bones, the pink slip of tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip. He pulled the shirt over his head to spare himself the image when it became too much, tugging it down with his hand after a moment. 

 

“The book!” Emma said suddenly, breaking through the heavy tension. “We can check the book.” 

 

They had thankfully left the book and Emma’s pack behind in the wagon for the climb up, sparing them a soak, and she grabbed it now, settling herself on a driftwood log Killian had pulled to the fire. Killian jolted as well. 

 

The book. The book might have the answer. Baba Yaga had said Emma’s true love was already known to her. That he was was here, within a day’s ride. Perhaps the mythical man was in the book. 

 

“It’s all still here,” Emma breathed out, relieved. “It all looks the same.” 

 

“Well that’s one stroke of luck for us. Finally,” he said. He handed her a flagon of water, and the bag of their provisions. “May I?” He asked and gestured to her hands. Emma traded him the food for the book. 

 

“What are you looking for?” She asked after a few mouthfuls of water. Killian settled himself on the log beside her, opening it on his lap.

 

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said absently, evasive, his fingers moving across the pages. 

 

This was true. He had no idea who he was looking for. Familiar names and faces looked back at him. Even his own, fierce and angry, his eyes filled with revenge. He turned the page quickly. 

 

Some were ridiculous notions he realized flipping through it. He couldn’t imagine Emma with any of the dwarves for instance. And many of the others were family or otherwise attached. Next to him Emma ate, and fed bits of apple to Four when the creature nosed against her hair, glancing at him curiously. 

 

Killian flipped another page, and stopped. He swallowed. A man stared back at him, a dagger in his hand. Killian turned the page back, to the start of the story, and began to read silently.

 

Emma leaned over, looking at the page that had caught his interest. He heard the small intake of her breath, noted the sudden stillness of her body where it touched his on the log and considered it a confirmation. He swallowed, and continued reading.

 

When he reached the end he closed the book, running his hand over the gold inlay, and then looked into the fire. That was the way of it then. His eyes burned. From the smoke he told himself. 

 

“Killian?” Emma asked. “What is it?” She sounded frightened, unsure. She shifted closer to him on the log. 

 

“"I spent a fair bit of time in your Sheriff's Office looking for my hook,” Killian said after a long silence. The fire crackled in the pit in front of him, and he watched the flames dance. Emma held herself still, waiting.

 

“There's a pair of boots in there with a bit of missing cord that matches the one you've worn on your wrist since I've known you.” Killian reached over to where her hands were clasped in her lap, and he brushed over the wrapping in her wrist. 

 

“People talk about him, fond remembrances, the odd story. I heard them in the diner, and your boy spoke of him once I’m sure.” Killian sighed to himself, defeated. “And whenever they did you’d get this...this look on your eye. I know that look all too well.” He looked at her then.  _ She _ looked devastated, her fingers reaching up absently to touch the same spot on her wrist, trailing down the leather. Killian continued on, his voice growing hoarse.

 

“And just now….when I was looking through the storybook you tensed when you saw the tale I was reading. I recognized the illustration from an image in your Sheriff’s Station.” 

 

“Why are you talking about this?” Emma asked. There was an edge of anger in her voice, the kind of anger that was closer to grief. He knew that anger too.

 

Killian closed his eyes. He looked for a moment to the sky, to the stars that looked down at them, just at the edges of the firefight. He sighed again. 

 

“Because Emma,” he forced a smile at her, his cheekiest sideways grin, even as his heart cracked and crumbled. 

 

“I believe I’ve found your true love.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your patience and sticking with this story. I will be finishing it, one chapter at a time. I hope you like it!

Betrayal. That was the only word Emma could think of. It wasn’t the right word. He wasn’t being malicious, but it was all she could feel at Killian’s reluctant admission. Betrayal. It was ridiculous, but it still burned hotly under her skin, stuck in her throat, made her mouth dry and her ears burn. 

 

Graham. 

 

It was an unspoken agreement in Storybrooke not to mention the former Sheriff. Not to speculate or question the manner of his death. Everyone followed the rules for their own reasons. Some out of respect for Emma. Some out of fear of the Evil Queen. The only acknowledgement to the man who had served them for so long was a worn pair of boots and a plaque hung on the station wall. A grave Emma had never visited in the cemetery. And when someone slipped, with a fond remembrance or an anecdote about his life in the town, something he had done or a joke he had told, it was quickly glossed over. The subject was always changed with an awkward laugh or a hesitant glance in her direction. Everyone knew not to remind her of him. Of his death. That look in her eyes, the one Killian had described, was all the grief and anger and powerlessness. The how’s and why’s, and the injustice of it all. The constant stream of bad thing after bad thing that had buried Graham’s death down deep, where it couldn’t be examined, couldn’t be looked at too closely.

 

Emma wasn’t even sure she had ever really had a chance to breathe after Graham died, much less grieve him. There was always too much to deal with. Regina. Henry. Mary Margaret. Neal. The town. Memories lost and gained. Too much, too fast and all the while a man was forgotten.

 

For her son, for Henry, she always let her thoughts of Graham dance around the specifics. It was better if he never came up at all. Better for Henry. Better for Emma. Better for Storybrooke. 

 

The simple truth of the matter was Emma couldn’t bear to look Graham’s killer in the face, day after day, and still work with the woman against the unspeakable darkness looming over them. Emma couldn’t work with Regina to save the town if she let herself remember what the woman had done. She couldn’t let herself think of how senseless it was that a good man was gone. Out of jealousy. Out of spite. Emma couldn’t co-parent and be the mother Henry needed if she acknowledged the mysteries surrounding an innocent man’s death. Better to shove it down, keep moving, ignore the obvious. Forget the past. Regina had done unspeakable things. It was easy to justify, to forget, to focus on the present. 

 

And now here he was again, hidden in the shadows of grief in Killian’s eyes as he looked at her, his face cast into darkness by the firelight. Emma set her jaw. She felt almost guilty that she hadn’t realized Graham would be here, in this time, alive. She felt guilty that it had been so long since she had even thought of him. The shoelace around her wrist was a tribute to him that had grown commonplace. Another piece of her daily routine. She hadn’t spared a thought for him in so many months, there was always too much going on. And now, this. 

  
  


“No,” she said simply, and stood. Her limbs were buzzing, heavy with exhaustion but itching to move, to run, to get away. 

 

“Emma,” Killian’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, and his eyes were just shy of meeting her gaze. “I know that this is rather...difficult.” He looked frustrated with himself for not being able to put a better voice to his thoughts. And heartbroken. He looked so very heartbroken. She could tell he was trying to compartmentalize this. Trying to put on a brave face. But he couldn’t hide the shine in his eyes, the bob of his throat as he swallowed. She ignored it all, pushed it down with the rest. It didn’t matter. If it did, he wouldn’t be saying these terrible things, wouldn’t be putting forth this ridiculous theory. 

 

“Difficult?” Emma said in disbelief. “After all this, after  _ everything  _ we’ve been through already, you are really going to tell me this is  _ difficult.  _ Graham is  _ dead _ . He’s not my..my...my true love,” she spat the phrase, hating it more now than she ever had. “He’s not  _ anything _ anymore, because of-“ Emma shook her head. “Graham is not an option.” 

 

_ “ _ Not in the present,” Killian acknowledged. “But here in the past, he might be.” He swallowed again, glancing away. “Baba Yaga, when I drank her tea, there were...trials.” 

 

“Trials? What kind of trials?” Emma still hadn’t moved, just watched his profile, the flutter in his jaw as he steeled himself.  

 

“Oh you know,” he waved it off. “Riddles and nonsense. The tricks of a mad old witch. We had an arrangement. Play her game and in return for my success she’d answer my questions and give me what we needed to help you. The unicorn, and the feather, namely. That was the agreement, and that was her forfeit when I was victorious.”

 

“What kind of questions?” Emma almost didn’t want to know. Wasn’t sure how this could possibly connect. Everything was a muddle of nonsense. It was so beyond insane that she thought for a moment that Maleficent’s potion had worn off, that exhaustion had finally addled her brain to the point of hallucination.

 

“I asked her how we would return,” he said slowly. Emma huffed in frustration, her teeth grinding. 

 

“I heard that, I was  _ there.  _ Spit it out Hook, what else did you ask her? What  _ possible  _ question could you have asked that would make you bring... _ that _ ..up?

 

“I asked-“ he winced at her harsh use of his name. “-where we could find your true love. The one who could break your curse.” 

  
  


Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t that. 

 

“What...what did she say?” Emma whispered. She was suddenly afraid. She didn’t want to know.  

 

“That it was a man. Within half a day’s ride.”  Something in Emma’s stomach eased, her heart sinking a bit. 

 

“That could be, literally, anyone,” Emma snapped, some of the fear trickling away to anger. “ _ That’s  _ your evidence? Some crazy lady in the woods with a weird fucking house and a skeleton boyfriend telling you  _ a random man _ within a 20 mile radius is my true love?”

 

“There’s more,” Killian said. His voice was gravel raw, thick with emotion, and it made her eyes tear to hear it. She knew how he felt, had thrown it in his face more than once now. She knew that this couldn’t be easy for him. Hell, it was probably one of the harder things he had done. But the threat of tears was not all born of sorrow, but the anger building inside her as well. Anger that he was so accepting, that he was so gullible, that he could just pair her off with some stranger he didn’t know without batting an eye. It hurt. There was too much going on for her to pull apart all the threads, to examine any one emotion too closely. 

 

“Before we left she gave me one more gift, an answer to a question I hadn’t asked.” Killian closed his eyes briefly, collecting himself, and continued. “She said that the man was already known to you.” 

 

“I guess that’s a bit more specific,” Emma scoffed, still not entirely believing him. She came back to the log, reluctantly sitting down. “Why Gr-“ she caught herself, choking on the name. “Him?” 

 

“I told you,” he still wasn’t looking at her. “I’ve seen that look before. I know it intimately. Your lost Sheriff fits. You felt-” again he paused. “ _ -something _ for him before he was lost to you.”

 

Emma could only shake her head. She had never examined her feelings for Graham too closely. It was such a new thing, the spark of a silly crush, mild flirtations, more than a little annoyance, the anger over his betrayal with Regina, and then that faint flicker of something, so brief and bright, dashed as soon as he had collapsed in her arms. Over before it began. 

 

“We weren’t-” she started. “It wasn’t like that. We worked together.” 

 

Killian was silent next to her, still not looking at her, waiting for her to continue. 

 

“I mean, we kissed. Right before he...died. I kissed him.” Emma shook her head. “It was... new. He was so-” Emma could barely get the words out as she remembered that day. Graham begging her to understand. Wanting so badly to believe him despite how crazy he sounded. How confused and frantic he had been. His hands soft on her face. A single tear as he looked at her with such awe and wonder. She shuddered, swallowing back tears. She could see Killian wince again in her periphery, but he kept his silence, letting her speak, letting her relive it in her memory. 

 

_ “I remember. I remember. Thank you.” _

 

A cold realization settled in her stomach.

 

“I kissed him and he  _ remembered _ ,” Emma breathed out. “Before the curse broke. He remembered his old life. Here. Before the curse.”  

 

Killian sucked in a hiss of breath as if he’d been struck, a blink and you missed it fluttering of his eye lashes against his cheek. He looked to the sky, took a deep breath, and spoke.

 

“I think you have your answer, Swan,” he said dully.

 

“I don’t-” Emma shook her head. 

 

“I know this is painful,” Killian broke in. “I know you’re frightened.” His arm turned, and through the white of his shirt in the glow of the firelight she could make out the faint outline of his tattoo. “Losing someone you...cared for. Believe me, I know.”

 

“Figures,” Emma whispered. “My true love is a dead guy.” She tried to put some levity in her voice, but failed. It was too heavy, too raw, too close to home for both of them.  There just didn’t seem to be any right words. 

 

“But he’s not dead  _ here _ ,” Killian replied. “Perhaps fate has given you a-“ again, he couldn’t seem to force himself to finish for a long moment. It made her heart ache. “-a second chance.” 

 

“Some fairytale,” she muttered to herself, for both of them.

 

“But that’s just it, love.” Killian turned to face her fully now. His eyes were so blue. So soft and sad.  “ You said, by the lake, that you didn’t see yourself in these stories. In your boy’s book. It was just Princesses and fairy tales that you were never apart of.” He tapped the book for emphasis, and then let it fall to rest on his lap.

 

He reached over, taking her hand in his own. It was warm and solid, a frisson of electric heat where he stroked his thumb over the back.  

 

“What if this is  _ your _ story, Emma? What if this is  _ your _ fairytale? You thought of this time, this place for a  _ reason _ . What if this is it?” He was whispering now, earnest and sad, his eyes shining in the firelight as his voice cracked ever so slightly. It made her breath catch in her throat hearing that crack, and she struggled to breathe. He gave her hand a slight squeeze and let it rest on the leather bound book.  “This could be your happily ever after.”

 

She swallowed and looked away, pulling her hand back, and let out a derisive laugh. 

 

“Then the ending sucks.” 

  
  


_____

  
  


Emma had been silent for most of the day, only asking him now and again for the tiny flask of potion Maleficent had given her. Once just before they had departed, and again as the cart drew closer to their destination. She seemed like she’d rather he keep the potion for her, so he did, tucking it safely in his satchel as Four took them down the ruts and dips of the packed dirt road. 

 

She had sent him to rest the night before, refusing to leave until he had gotten some sleep. She had a potion to keep her wits about her, he had nothing. He needed actual sleep to function she’d reminded him. They had faced a dragon and leapt from a window. He needed some sleep. She had left him alone by the fire, with the book and his troubled thoughts, and gone down to the edge of the lake to be alone for a bit. Away from him. Away from all talks of fairy tales and true love. Perhaps to give herself time to mourn where she hadn’t before. Sleep wasn’t possible for either of them, and as the first light of the dawn broke over the lake they packed up their little camp and set out to find some answers. 

 

Now they were deep into enemy territory. Just miles away from the Queen’s castle, which towered above the trees in the distance, shining and ominous, and in his opinion, rather hideous. The wanted posters had increased in frequency the closer they had gotten, nearly one for every tree they passed. Emma had put her hood up, her cloak still slightly damp and smelling faintly of lake water, hiding her face as best she could. He had no cloak, but had raised the collar on his coat in a half hearted attempt at disguise. Her face was the more recognizable one, the reward on her head much higher.

 

Thankfully the Queen’s road had been empty for much of their journey, deemed too dangerous for most would be travelers. Not due to the usual ruffians or outlaws, he suspected, but the threat of the Evil Queen herself. The air was thicker here, with anxiety and fear, a palpable thing, mixed with the heavy smoky scent of dark magic that blanketed the land. Even Four noticed the change, the horse jerking it’s head anxiously and slowing it’s pace more and more the closer they got. Even the birds were silent, much like Maleficent’s fortress, all the animals had fled for safer ground, sensing danger.

 

“We’ll stop in the next village,” Killian said, pulling the reins to guide their cart towards the smoke of chimney fires in the near distance, following the well trafficked ruts in the road. “It’s risky, but we can see if anyone has any idea where we might find him. The closer villages tend to be more sympathetic to the Queen’s enemies, we might get by. Or they could all be dead.” He gestured to the smoke which suddenly seemed more ominous than simple cooking fires. “No telling in these parts.”

 

“And then what?” Emma asked bitterly. “I just go up, introduce myself, and plant one on him?”

 

“Not exactly the most tactful plan,” Killian said. The idea of her planting anything on anyone made his stomach twist, equal parts pain and jealousy. He ignored it. “And I doubt it will work.” 

 

“What? Why?” Emma looked at him. “You said that Baba Yaga-“

 

Emma fell silent as Killian wrapped the reins around his wooden hand, tucking them under his arm. He reached behind them, wiggling the story book out of its place in the satchel once again. He set it carefully on her lap, keeping one eye on the road as he flicked through the pages. 

 

When he came to the one he wanted he stopped turning and tapped the page with a finger. 

 

“Here we are,” he said. 

 

“This is about my parents,” Emma looked up at him confused.

 

“Aye,” he nodded. He took the reins in his hand again, and clucked softly at Four to correct their course. “In that particular tale your mother accepts a potion from the Dark One-“ the name was said with faint distaste, his lip curling,  “-to take away the pain of a broken heart after she loses your father.” 

 

There was a lump in his throat, it was too close to home. He thought briefly of the memory potion still tucked away in his bag. The one that would be consumed on the day Emma was happiest. He had a fair idea now of what day that would be. He could see the appeal of such a decision. He had not quite hit it off with the eponymous Snow White, but in this he understood her perfectly. 

 

“They find each other again of course, they tend to do that,” Killian continued on, he smiled at her wryly, waggling an eyebrow to break some of the tension.  “She’d already taken the potion however and it had the unfortunate side effect that she had no memory of him at all. So when he kisses her,” Killian waved the reins in a gesture Emma couldn’t interpret “-nothing happens.”

 

“Okay,” Emma prompted, idly turning the page. “Not seeing the point.”

 

“If he doesn’t know you he can’t-” Killian almost said ‘love you’, but that was a step too far. “-break the curse.” 

 

“How do you know this?” Emma asked, looking at the pages. 

 

“I read it last night before I fell asleep,” Killian said. It was only half a lie. 

 

He had meant to rest as she’d ordered, but instead he had spent his evening squinting at the text of the story book in the dimming firelight. It was a last ditch effort, looking for something, anything, that might change things. That story had lit a flame of hope in him, however brief. That was why it had stuck with him. 

 

He’d thought of Emma in New York as he’d read, her eyes looking at him with no hint of recognition, her lips dry and tasting slightly of mint as he’d tried to kiss her memories back. If it hadn’t worked for Snow White and Prince Charming, the golden pinnacle of Truest Love, then perhaps there was still hope for him. Graham’s memories returning after a kiss was perhaps just a fluke, a happy coincidence. Emma was the Savior, the product of that Truest Love, she could do anything, even restore the memories of a cursed man with a simple kiss. 

 

But then reality had come crashing in again. The well. Zelena’s curse. The loss of Emma’s magic, not restored since. The entire reason they were forced to do this. There were only so many loopholes, so many near misses, so many excuses he could make. Not even Captain Hook could argue with fate.  

 

And now he was using his last thin spark of hope to make the case for another man. The lesson of lost love was for this Graham person, the lesson of loss was for Killian Jones. As it should be. Fate, if nothing else, could certainly be cruel, but she stayed the course. 

“So I have to get him to what,  _ fall _ for me?” Emma asked incredulously, breaking into his thoughts, more than a hint of horror in her voice. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?” 

 

Killian couldn’t look at her, had found it increasingly hard to do so as of late, instead he focused on the horse, on keeping the cart centered in the road. 

 

“I don’t believe it will be as difficult as you fear,” Killian said softly. It certainly hadn’t been for him. A dagger at his throat and sunlight in her hair. All it had taken was one adventure and a bandage. A frantic kiss in a humid jungle.

 

Emma was silent next to him. Her fingers idly traced the pages of the book, her expression troubled. 

 

“I don’t want to do this,” Emma said after a long, awkward, beat. Just the sounds of the wheels on the road and the rustle of leaves. 

 

He could barely hear her it was so softly spoken. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t want her to do this either. To say fuck fate, or destiny and fuck true love. It had brought them both nothing but pain. He wanted so badly to tell her none of it mattered to him. He didn’t care. He didn’t need destiny to love her. He didn’t need love to be true to feel it. That there was nothing in the world he didn’t want her to do more than he didn’t want her to fall in love with another. But the potion wouldn’t last forever. Emma was dying hour by hour, and they needed this to work. Emma still had a chance. They had to take it. She was a hero and her true love could be right here, just miles away. What he wanted more than her love was her safety and her happiness, and this would practically ensure it. 

 

“It doesn’t feel  _ right _ ,” she said after another long moment. 

 

“Just try love. If not for you, and your  _ happy ending _ ,” he couldn’t help but sneer a bit at that. “-then for Henry and your family. If we break this curse we can work on getting you home, back to them. The rest will work itself out.”

 

“For Henry,” Emma repeated. 

 

Killian could feel her eyes on him, his skin prickling under her gaze, but he still couldn’t look at her. If he looked at her he’d break. He’d allow himself to be selfish again, become the pirate again, taking what he pleased, damn the consequences. And he’d ask her not to do this. He’d tell her they could find another way. She was wavering on the knife edge already: afraid and reluctant, angry that she had no choice in this, no sense of freewill. One word from him could tip the balance in his favor. He had every advantage. 

 

But they were out of options. Faced with losing her to someone else and losing her forever there was no choice to be made.

Killian remained silent. 

 

_____

  
  


The village of  Sneewittchen was little more than a collection of ramshackle cottages and lean tos near a roughly painted sign declaring its name. If not for the sign they might have missed it completely, hidden in the trees and scrub as it was. A blacksmith, a tavern with a small attached inn, and a few pieces of wood cobbled together into approximations of market stalls were all that comprised the village square, hard compact earth and a crumbling well the central focus of the village. The people were quiet and industrious, dirty and ragged, and sparse. They were actually  _ too _ quiet, Emma noted. There was no idle chatter in the streets, no gossiping on the corners. The villagers moved from place to place like wary ghosts, only the occasional squeal or bawk from random farm life filling in the gaps. The people scurried like frightened ants, shoulders hunched and heads bowed.  It was a far cry from the bustling city of Phrygia. There was no busy market here , no flamboyant performances and people hawking their wares, no obvious distinction between the rich and the poor. There was just the poor. 

 

“Where are the Black Knights?” Emma whispered. Killian deftly maneuvered the cart to the edge of the road, beyond the straggling brush and into a copse of trees lining it. They were just outside of the village proper, but the square was clear of the Queen’s enforcers. Only a few of the townsfolk moving here and there, or working in their huts. She could hear the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer, and the baying of a barnyard animal. 

 

“This close to the castle?” He frowned, jumping down from the cart. Emma climbed after him, grateful for the chance to stretch. “They aren’t needed. Any thought of rebellion was driven out of these people long ago.” He motioned to the tower of Regina's castle standing sentry, watching and waiting. 

 

Emma peered through the trees at the village. She could see it, on their solemn faces, in the lack of children playing and people actually living. These villagers had been driven into the dirt, had lost enough that they were little more than broken things, going through the motions. Most of the fire in them had to have been snuffed out years ago. The castle looming over them, just a few miles away, always under the watchful eye of the tyrannical all seeing Queen. It was enough of a threat to keep them in line. It made sense. She knew from the book that other villages had already burned, that raids were regular, and that so many had already died. Those who remained fell into step quickly to avoid the same fate. It would be a while before Snow White rose up to oppose her, before Emma’s parents brought life and spirit back to the people. 

 

“You stay here,” Killian said, slinging his satchel over this shoulder.

 

“What?” Emma looked at him startled. “Why? We should stick together.” 

 

Killian shook his head. 

 

“Just because we haven’t seen the Queen’s men doesn’t mean they aren’t around. I’ll scout ahead, ask around in the tavern if anyone has seen him. I have a feeling that, as dead as this place is outwardly, that’s the place to be.”  He smirked. “Always is.” 

 

Emma bristled. It felt wrong. 

 

“I can help,” Emma said. “We can ask around  _ together _ .”

 

“Just keep yourself hidden here. The trees should hide you well enough. Busy yourself with Four if anyone comes near. And keep your hood up. Your face was the more prominent one on that infernal bounty but they might not see the likeness with mine. I’m also a fairer hand with a sword if we should run into trouble. Save your strength Swan. I’ll make inquiries, perhaps secure a room you can hide in until we find him.” 

 

“I’m not leaving you,” Emma said. The smirk on his face faded, his jaw growing taut. 

 

“Of the two of us  _ I’m _ the most expendable,” he snapped. Emma opened her mouth to argue but he was already forging ahead. “If anything happens to me you can still find your Sheriff, and you can still break the curse. You can still get home. If you’re captured by the Queen that can’t happen.”

 

Emma bristled. 

 

“And how will  _ you  _ get back if that happens, huh? That’s a pretty crappy plan, Hook.” This time the emphasis on the name was deliberate, and he knew it, glaring at her.

 

He stepped close, so close she could feel the warmth from his chest, count each individual eyelash. She flushed, half from anger half from something she didn’t want to examine too closely under the circumstances. Now was not the time. She sucked in a breath, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

 

“Where  _ I  _ go and what happens to me is of no consequence to anyone. I will see that you get home to your family, back to your boy, as I promised. You will break that curse and we will find a way for you to get home. So for once, Swan, listen to me and do as I ask.” 

 

Before she could reply, or even move, he had turned, stalking into the village square towards the dilapidated tavern. 

 

_______

 

It seemed that fate was smiling on them today, which Killian felt was a particularly cruel twist of the proverbial knife. Nothing about this journey had been simple so far. Of course,  _ now _ the pieces would fall into place. 

 

The innkeep was a jovial fellow, if not a little subdued, with a shining bald pate and a round jolly belly that swelled out from under a dingy apron. He was half into his cups by the time Killian arrived, apparently a proprietor who drank as much, or more, than he sold. Being several sheets to the wind he didn’t stare too closely at Killian’s face, he only had eyes for the gold in his hand, the last remaining of their robbery in Midas’s lands. 

 

The tavern was busy compared to the square, just as Killian had suspected. He had seen his share of broken towns in his time. Seen what tyranny could do to the good folks who served under it. It was the only respite these people had from the ever present shadow of the Queen: staunch drinks and rowdy company. He blended in perfectly, and all the patrons were too absorbed in their own drinks and their own troubles to pay mind to a weary traveler. 

 

The Sheriff wasn’t in town the barkeep had informed him, he lived in the castle now, a consort to the Queen. 

 

“Not by his will, no,” the man had said with a shake of his head. “Like a dog, he is. Beholden to his mistress. Poor sod.” The man murmured as he poured sour smelling ale into a tankard and slid it across the counter. He topped off his own drink as well and took a sympathetic swill for a fallen man. Killian sniffed the concoction, wrinkling his nose at the odor, but took a sip for courtesy's sake. He pushed the tankard away. 

 

“Does he ever leave the castle?” Killian asked dropping a coin onto the counter. The man made a grunting noise and reached under the counter. He slapped a scrap of parchment down on the wood with a thwap.

 

“Tax collectin’ day, only time he shows his face,” the man said. “Tomorrow.” 

 

“My thanks for the information. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen my-“ Killian did his best to sound happy. “-friend, so it seems my timing was impeccable.” 

 

“Impreciable for sure,” the man nodded, taking another swig to finish off his pour. “So you’ll be needing a room then?” His eyes flickered to Killian’s hand and he licked his lips.

 

“Aye,” Killian nodded. “My companion and I will stay the night.” He laid four more coins onto the counter in a neat stack.

 

“For the room. And the keeping of our horse.” He placed another two on top of it. 

 

“For a hot meal.”  And then he set two more on top of those. The man’s eyes widened.

 

“And for your discretion.”

 

The innkeep looked up at him then, and Killian winked, taking up the forgotten tankard and downing the sour brew in a few industrious gulps. It was disgusting but it did help clear his head a bit. 

 

“Yessir,” the man nodded. “Thank you, kindly sir.” 

 

“Is there a rear entrance?” Killian asked, leaning closer, lowering his voice. “My companion is rather shy. Hates crowds, you know how it can be.” He slid another two coins across the counter which the man pocketed with a nod. 

 

“Follow me.” 

  
  


There were running dangerously low on funds after Killian’s display of generosity, but if all went well they wouldn’t have use for it soon. Killian considered it coin well spent once Four was safely stowed in the stable, a weedy looking boy seeing to her tack and feeding and the keeping of their modest little cart, and Emma secreted into their room in the inn. 

 

“What did you find out?” Emma asked once she was inside, pulling off her cloak with a wrinkle of her nose, happy to be rid of the thing. 

 

“Tomorrow,” Killian said. He stowed their bags and supplies in the rickety wardrobe against the wall, shrugging out of his own coat. “Tax collection day apparently.” 

 

“Like the Sheriff of Nottingham,” Emma said absently. 

 

“Different bloke,” Killian said with a shake of his head. A knock at the door revealed a dumpy looking woman carrying a tray of hard bread and brown sludge that could barely pass for stew. Their hot meal apparently. He accepted it with a gracious but cursory nod and firmly closed the door, balancing the tray on his arm. “Did you not read his story?” He asked setting it on an even more derelict looking table. Everything about this place was falling apart. 

 

“I skimmed it,” Emma said defensively. “There are _ a lot _ of stories in that book.” Killian pushed a bowl of stew over to her, and a piece of bread, gesturing for her to eat. Deciding against it for himself. Food was the last thing on his mind. 

 

“Might give us some clues on how to proceed,” Killian said. He walked over and picked up the bag with the book, taking it out again. “Would you mind if I-” Killian trailed off, holding it up. 

 

Emma shook her head, looking away, focusing instead on the bowl of unappealing brown water and limp vegetables. 

 

“I just...can’t,” she said finally. 

 

Killian nodded, understanding and settled himself on the bed. It was lumpy and smelled of wood smoke and mildew. A quick inspection had deemed it free of bugs and filth, and it was far better than the ground, or the back of the cart, he reasoned, so he considered it a small victory. He opened the story book, turning the pages until he found the Huntsman's tale, and began to read. He could feel Emma’s wary gaze flickering over to him every so often, nervous and concerned. He ignored her, focusing on the man in the pages. 

 

It was an odd form of self imposed torture. A penance almost. Reading about the person who would capture the heart of the woman he loved. The man she was destined to be with. But he had to know. He needed to understand. And then, as he turned the final page, the story complete, he did. 

 

“He didn’t go through with it,” he said to himself. 

 

“What?” Emma asked. Killian shook his head. 

 

“Nothing Swan, just thinking out loud,” he flashed her a false smile and snapped the book closed. “I’ll just go check on the horse shall I? Stay here, bolt the door. I’ll return in a trice.” 

 

“Killian?” Emma asked concern, moving to rise from her seat. 

 

“Eat your supper, got to keep your strength up,” Killian said, again the false smile, his feet moving swiftly to the door. 

 

“Killian,” Emma said again, sharper this time. He ignored her, pulling the door closed behind him. 

 

He barely registered the short trek to the stable. The details of the story swirling through his head. 

 

So that was it then. That was the difference. 

 

Two men, both faced with a trial from the Queen, a task set forth, a bargain struck. The Huntsman, ordered to kill an innocent girl to protect those he loved. A noble cause to be sure. And in the end, despite that, turning away from it. Saving Snow White instead, and sacrificing himself in her place. 

 

And a Pirate, told to kill his father, his only living family, for the means to seek his vengeance. Not exactly a noble quest. Blood hot on his hands, his father’s breath on his neck as he collapsed into the dirt. An innocent orphaned by a swift, impulsive deed, born out of grief, and rage, and single minded purpose. 

 

Only one of them had succeeded. And only one of them had paid the price with his life. That was it. The moment Killian had proved himself unworthy in the eyes of fate. That was the difference. Graham the Huntsman had died a hero. And Killian Jones had lived far longer than he’d had any right to, driven by dark impulse, hurting and killing for his own selfish purpose.

 

Killian’s hand trembled as he took out his flask, struggling to get his teeth around the stopper they chattered so fiercely. The barn was still and silent, only Four’s breath and the occasional scrape and slide of it’s hooves along the dirt floor. Killian took a long draw, and then another, anything to ease the sharp spike of panic in his chest. So many mistakes over the centuries, so many wrong turns. It should have been so obvious that one day he would pay the price. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the liquor fill him, and reminded himself of what he now knew for certain. That what the Dark One had said to the Queen was the truth.

 

“Villains don’t get happy endings”.

 

______

 

“Is that him?” Killian murmured out of the corner of his mouth. Emma cast her head down, sneaking a peek back towards the bar and gasped. 

 

Graham. 

 

He looked exactly as she remembered him. The light curl of his hair. The dusting of stubble along his jaw. The way he stood, sure of himself but apart from the world. It was like being hit by a wave, a swift rush of emotion and awe jolting her physically just seeing him again, pulled into the undertow. For a moment she forgot herself, staring openly across the tavern at this walking ghost, at a relic from the past. Killian nudged her with his arm, and she turned back, ducking into the safety of her hood, her heart beating a rapid tattoo in her ears. They were well hidden in the shadows of the corner, but Graham was not alone, flanked on either side by two bored looking Black Knights acting as escort. 

 

“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” Killian muttered. He downed the foul ale in one long gulp. It was his third.He had been surly, his face dark and shadowed, since he had returned to their room the previous evening. He had lain next to her in their shared bed without argument this time, turning his back to her without a word, though if he actually slept she couldn’t tell. He’d had no nightmares this time, his breathing steady next to her the entire night. She couldn’t blame him, she understood completely, her own nerves raw and frayed, anxiety pooling in her stomach. You never realized how long the night was when you had to wait for it to pass.

 

“Yes,” Emma whispered, sneaking another glance. “That’s him.”  He was still at the bar, his face solemn and expressionless, but polite, collecting a handful of coins from the innkeeper with a nod.

 

“Alright then.” Killian put the empty tankard down with a bit more force than necessary. “I’ll distract the guards, see if you can get his attention.” He rose. 

 

“Don’t,” Emma said, panicking. She reached out, grabbing his hand. “Wha-What do I do?” 

 

The smirk he gave her was more of a forced sneer than anything, a flash of teeth, as he pulled his hand away. A fresh stab of hurt had her wincing as he backed away from her like she had burned him. 

 

“I’m sure you’ll think of something Swan,” he said with that horrible false sort of cheer that only made it worse. “It’s True Love!” It was like he had slapped her. Another physical blow of pain that rocked her where she sat. 

 

Killian turned on his heel and crossed the bar. Emma watched him anxiously, torn, and unsure of what to do. She didn’t want this. It hurt too much. She didn’t want to see Graham. But she desperately wanted to see him again at the same time. She didn’t want to cause Killian pain but this plan left her little choice in the matter. This wasn’t right. To be fucked with by some higher unknown destiny this way.

 

Graham had turned away, walking towards the door. He was leaving. She was about to miss her chance. 

 

“Your story,” Emma whispered to herself. “It’s your story.”  She was a bounty hunter. She had been through similar scenarios before. If she couldn’t sort out her own feelings she could at least do that. Pretend he was just like any other skip. This was just another job. Someone she needed to capture. 

 

She leapt to her feet, just as Killian threw himself bodily into another man, at another table, sending half full cups of alcohol and bowls of the same greasy stew from the day before to the floor. Killian gave a slurred apology, playing the drunk with practiced ease, and clumsily went to pick up the discarded dishes, only to drop them again. The man he’d fallen into bellowed in outrage, cursing him and the Black Knights turned at the commotion, amused at the drunken lout. One stepped forward with a good natured chuckle to break it up.

 

Emma slipped past, her eyes trained on the floor, head turned to the side. She focused on the pair of soft brown boots that were leaving the tavern, apparently not interested in drunken bar fights. She increased her speed, the sunlight bright as she followed him out into square. 

 

Graham was just ahead of her, apparently having no issue leaving his men behind as he moved to tuck away the small purse of gold he’d taken from the bar keep. Emma picked up her pace. And rammed right into his back. 

 

The purse fell to the ground, tiny discs of gold rolling out of it into the dirt. 

 

“Oh gosh,” Emma exclaimed, her voice high and breathless. “I didn’t see you there I am so sorry.” She followed him down to her knees. “Let me help you sir.” 

 

“No, no need. I got it.” 

 

Emma’s breath caught at the sound of that voice. So familiar. The accent thick, not friendly but not angry either. Resigned. She looked up, her mouth dry as she finally took him in fully. His eyes were not the same, she thought. Less open. Duller somehow. He glanced at her briefly as he gathered the coins. “Be a bit more careful, eh?” He said. 

 

Her heart sank a bit. There was no flash of recognition. No grand romantic spark. No bolt of lightning. Just an act of clumsiness and a polite dismissal. Emma checked that off mentally. Made note of it. She wasn’t one prone to romanticized notions, so she wasn’t quite sure why, but it seemed important. 

 

“I-I actually wanted to talk to you,” Emma stuttered. He did look at her with interest now, and more than a hint of suspicion. 

 

“Me? What about?” The last of the gold collected he rose to his feet, reaching down to help her up with brusque efficiency. Emma looked at his hand for a long moment and then placed her own inside it.

 

Nothing. She didn’t know what she’d expected. His hand was warm, the skin roughened softness from labor, but nothing more than that, and gone as soon as she was back on her feet. She made another mental check.

 

“I-um-I,” Emma cursed herself. She was better than this. “I just, saw you in the bar, and I wanted to introduce myself.” She said finally, lowering her voice in a way she hoped was interested without coming across too strong. She should know this, she thought. She should know him. What he would like, what he wouldn’t. Her mind came up blank. 

 

Graham just stared at her expectantly, more than a bit impatient. 

 

“I’m Mary,” Emma said finally. “Mary Margaret.” 

 

“Nice to meet you Mary Margaret. If you’ll excuse me though, I’ve a lot of stops to make,” he gave his pocket a pat where the coins jingled. “It’s collection day.”

 

“I know, I know, I just wanted to talk to you,” Emma rushed. She glanced behind her at the tavern entrance, unsure of how much time Killian could buy her. 

 

“About?” Graham asked. His brow furrowed, scanning her face. “I know you-” he said, trying to work out if he actually did, more of a question than an absolute.

 

Emma’s heart stopped. He knew her. Did that mean-?

 

“You’re the girl on the poster. The one the Queen is looking for,” Graham’s voice was rising in alarm, his eyes darting back towards the tavern. He reached out, grabbing her arm. 

 

“No,” Emma jerked back. “That’s not-” she pulled harder but Graham was strong. There was a reason he was chosen to be Sheriff.  “That’s not what I need to talk to you about. It’s a misunderstanding. A great big misunderstanding, I just need to-” Graham had a good grip now. 

 

“I don’t want to take you in,” He was saying apologetically. “I don’t have a choice. I have to do as she orders.” 

 

“No you don’t,” Emma said, desperate now. This wasn’t going well at all. As far as meet cutes went this was turning into a disaster. “I just need to talk to you.” 

 

“You can talk all you like on the way to the palace,” Graham said. He was pulling her arms behind her back now, fully in arrest mode. Emma couldn’t get them free, boots sliding across the dirt as he dragged her bodily back towards the tavern and the waiting Black Knights. Back to Regina and her dungeon, a burning pyre and the end of this entire horrible journey. 

 

Emma sucked in a deep breath and blurted out the only thing she could think of, the only way she knew of to get his attention. The only way she knew this might work out. Perhaps she could save herself and an innocent man at the same time. 

 

“I want to help you get your heart back.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
